Not a Fan of the Bittersweet
by Slipstream77
Summary: An alternate ending to "Unfinished Business," wherein shots are fired, prices are paid, and perspectives are altered. A story told from a variety of viewpoints.
1. Chapter 1

**Not a Fan of the Bittersweet**

….

"_Neal came by. We had a nice little chat." _

"_Is he in one piece?"_

"_Yes, I left him whole."_

"_Good. I prefer him that way."_

…_..._

_An alternate ending to "Unfinished Business," wherein shots are fired, prices are paid, and perspectives are altered. A story told from a variety of viewpoints._

_Disclaimer: I don't own 'White Collar," just playing with these wonderful characters for a while. _

_To enhance enjoyment of this story, readers may want to rewatch "Unfinished Business." It's certainly not required in order to enjoy the tale, but a familiarity with the details of that episode might enrich your reading experience. Nothing after that episode has occurred in this story. Last point: this is __**not**__ a Neal/Sara story (though she does appear in it, just because of when it happens), and please keep in mind: this fic is set long before Neal and Sara's more recent . . . rapprochement. This story is most definitely an ensemble piece._

_Strong language; violence._

* * *

Chapter 1

Time seemed to freeze for an instant as the sound of the gunshots echoed—unbelievably loud—in her otherwise silent apartment.

Of course Sara Ellis had a gun. Early on in her career she'd decided it was essential equipment and acted accordingly. Using her powers of persuasion—they rarely failed her—she convinced her director of the need and obtained the company's assent to carry on the job. It wasn't customary, the risk-averse desk jockeys in the Sterling Bosch legal department didn't like it, and stunning quantities of red tape had to be cut. But she was nothing if not persistent, and, in the end, she got what she wanted.

Sara Ellis usually did.

Given the controversy, she knew she had to get it right—and so she invested considerable time in doing just that. That meant investigating various options, talking with friends in law enforcement, making her purchase, and training assiduously with her weapon of choice. She could expertly disassemble it, clean it, reassemble it. And, of course, fire the thing.

_If you're not prepared to use it, no point in having it. _So the firearms instructors proclaimed. She had always said that she wasn't afraid to use her weapon. She'd trumpet that to anyone who asked—and to some who hadn't.

But the fact was, she never _had _used it. Never fired in anger, anyway—never outside of the practice range. Until now. Now when two men lay bleeding on the floor of her apartment, one from bullets she'd fired, and the other because he'd done her a favor.

Sara had long considered herself a good shot. Anything she took the trouble to do, she made sure to be damn good at, so her marksmanship (highly questionable at first) had evolved into a point of pride. But what she hadn't ever given nearly enough thought to, in all those hours of target practice, was the importance of speed.

Seeing Neal Caffrey lying bleeding on her floor, though, brought it home in a sharp and nauseating flash.

Accuracy is nice, but when you're a foot away from the target, speed matters a hell of a lot more.

_The truth is, you were too slow. Drawing your weapon and then telling Black to drop his. Why didn't you tell him to freeze, too, to complete the cliché? Like the whole thing was a goddamn movie. Except this wasn't a movie. And Black certainly wasn't Caffrey—who'd obediently, immediately, frozen the other day when she'd pointed her gun at him and told him not to move. (Later, Peter had explained to her Caffrey's antipathy toward guns. Perhaps he really had just been scared shitless, although fear was not an emotion she normally associated with the man.)_

_No, Black wasn't Caffrey. This was different. This was an actual professional killer, doing his job with chilling efficiency. While she was wasting time talking, pointing the gun at him but not firing it, the bastard was already moving, already pulling the trigger, with Caffrey in his sights. _

Caffrey had known what was coming—probably not surprising, given his history. Armed with that knowledge—and nothing else—he wasn't going to just stand there and wait for bad things to happen. Anyone in his line of work had to be accustomed to moving quickly, and that was just what he'd done. He'd sensed it and reacted by diving out of the way, but not fast enough. Watching it all play out in front of her, in what felt like slow motion, she'd put two rounds right into the center of the back of the assassin's leather jacket, but she was a second too late, goddamnit, to keep Caffrey from being shot.

Had she had killed the bastard?

Sara knew she should feel shock. She should feel horror. She'd hurt some people in her life. Done so happily, in many cases. In fact, if she were more of the introspective type, she might have been frightened, just a little, at the amount of pleasure she could take in inflicting injury. Being a woman made it more fun, too. She was an expert in sensing when someone was sizing her up and assuming—because she was female—that she'd try to reason with them, or bargain with them, or maybe just back down.

And when she didn't, when she came back at them, when _she _was the aggressor . . . well, seeing their surprise could border on glorious.

So, yes, she'd hurt people—even enjoyed it, sometimes. But she'd never done anything that could take a life before.

It scared her—a little—that instead of shock and horror, she could feel only satisfaction at shooting a man in the back. But that feeling lasted only an instant before fear set in. A paralyzing fear that Caffrey was dead because she'd been a split second too late.

She looked from the man in black at her feet over to where Caffrey lay motionless, partially behind the couch. He'd hit the ground on his side, then fallen backwards so he lay face-up, while the bastard who'd shot him lay face-down. Her heart was in her throat—at least, something was making it hard to breathe—as she scanned Caffrey for signs of life, indecision freezing her momentarily.

He hadn't cried out when he'd been hit. He'd already been in motion, already darting low to seek cover, and he'd just continued down, falling to the floor without a sound. No words, no scream of anguish, no cry of pain. Caffrey's silence had given her hope that, as unlikely as it would be from this range, maybe somehow Black had missed.

The hope that flared through her—that Caffrey was unharmed—was desperate and irrational and lasted about three seconds.

Three seconds was about how long it had taken for the blood to start visibly flowing, and then her mind froze with fear.

_Maybe the reason he hasn't made a sound is because he's—_

_God, no._

Caffrey's eyes were closed. He wasn't moving, he wasn't talking, but he was bleeding. Most definitely bleeding. A bright stain had blossomed on his side, just above his right hip, spreading down to the waistband of his pants and turning his white shirt a sickeningly vivid shade of crimson.

Was he breathing? _He has to be, he has to be_, a voice inside her head was chanting_. _But she couldn't tell from here. She needed to get to him, needed to help him. But ...

_Okay, Sara. First things first._

First priority had to be making sure that bastard was out of commission.

Followed closely by making sure Caffrey was still alive—and keeping him that way.

She cautiously approached the gunman, watching for any movement and seeing none. Reaching out with her foot like she'd seen on a million cop shows, she slid the Ruger away from his outstretched hand and then kicked it away. The same gun Caffrey had been holding when he'd broken in here—what, a couple of days ago? So much had happened since that it felt like weeks ago . . . but she remembered the gun perfectly, the image burned into her brain. It looked to be the same weapon. God, but the silencer was huge. Seeing it, only then did it hit her how quiet the report of the firearm had been as he fired on Caffrey. Much quieter than hers.

The assassin's Ruger skittered across the smooth hardwood floor, lodging itself satisfyingly far away, under some shelves in the corner. Inaccessible.

Her rounds had hit him in the back, pretty much dead center. If this had been target practice, she would have taken pride in her shooting (well, except for the fact that only an utter novice could miss from this range). But with Caffrey bleeding a few feet away, Sara felt no pride, only anger at herself for not firing on Black faster. The entrance wounds were obvious, but she couldn't tell if there was an exit wound without turning him over, something she had no intention of doing.

She stepped quickly over his body, taking the few steps she needed to get to Caffrey. Still neither man had moved. Kneeling carefully next to Caffrey's right shoulder, she stayed vigilant, her gun still pointed at Black, ready to fire if he so much as twitched. With her other hand she reached out, feeling for the throat. She didn't want to take her eyes off the killer on her floor, but spared a second to locate Caffrey's pulse.

_Or where his pulse ought to be._

For a few long, heart-stopping seconds she thought there was none, but after a moment of searching and pressing, she found a weak, fluttering beat.

Only then did she look directly down to the wound, swallowing hard at the blood she saw there. She swept her gaze up to his face. Somehow paler, already. And as motionless as a statue.

She leaned in close. "Caffrey! Wake up!"

Nothing. His eyes stayed closed, his body stayed still. If not for the barely-there pulse, anybody looking at him would have sworn he was dead. She shook her head at the thought. _No._

Christ.

He needed help—quickly or it wouldn't matter at all.

Just then, a noise from across the room jolted her and she looked up sharply.

As if the killer had been wakened by her voice, he let out a low, guttural moan. Adrenaline coursed through her and automatically she brought her left hand up to join her right in cradling the pistol in a standard, two-handed grip. She trained the weapon on the center of his back, between the shoulder blades, where she'd shot him the first time. Her finger tightened on the trigger, ready to fire at any movement, but none came.

_Maybe that was the sound of him dying, _she thought, a little wildly.

She spared another glance at Caffrey. She hated to leave him, but it had to be done. Still pointing her weapon at the assassin in case he moved, she backed away, over to the other side of the room as quickly as she could, keeping the killer in sight. Where the hell was her cell phone? In her purse, which she'd dropped when she'd grabbed her weapon out of it—what? A minute ago? It felt like hours now.

Scrabbling around in her purse, she finally located the phone. The gun stayed in her right hand, just in case, and she stayed facing the killer. Dialing 911 with her left hand took two tries; her fingers didn't seem to be as coordinated as they ought to be.

_Okay, so maybe there was some residual shock after all. _

Someone answered, quicker than she'd hoped for. She'd never called 911 before, but everyone knew the horror stories about calling for help in a big city like New York and being put on hold, or whatever. But her call was answered almost right away. She gave her name and address and said that someone had broken into her apartment, that she'd shot him, and that an FBI agent had been shot too and that he was going to bleed to death if someone didn't get the hell over here _right now._ All right, Caffrey was anything but an "agent," but she wasn't above stretching the truth if it would get them here faster. And surely they'd push it for a wounded FBI agent as opposed to a convicted felon on parole, right? She knew how these things worked. Right now, Caffrey needed every advantage she could give him.

They told her to stay calm. _Oh, thanks for the valuable advice; why didn't I think of that? I'll just calm down while this guy bleeds to death in my living room._ She wanted to tell them to go to hell, just barely stopping herself.

They assured her the police and EMTs were coming, would be here soon. But they didn't realize just how soon Caffrey needed it to be. "Soon." to them, was one thing. "Soon," to a man who was bleeding out, was something else. They didn't know that, goddamnit.

And they proved it by firing questions at her. _Can you describe what happened? Is the intruder dead? Are you hurt? _ None of it important—except for the questions about Caffrey's condition, and what could she say about _that _other than that he'd been shot and was bleeding at a horrifying rate, _that he might be dying, for Christ's sake, _but she didn't say those exact words because she just . . . couldn't. She quickly lost what was left of her composure trying to answer them.

The conversation ended abruptly, with her swearing at them to get the fuck here _now_ and the cell dropping from her trembling hands, clattering to the floor and bouncing away from her. The phone rang again almost immediately, and kept ringing, but she couldn't be bothered now. She had made the only call that mattered. Now what mattered was getting back to Caffrey—and she was going to need both hands when she got there.

And goddamnit, she was really going to need her hands to stop shaking.

* * *

After arresting Halbridge, Peter had a smile on his face. He was satisfied. More than satisfied, really. Except . . . well, the only missing piece was the weapon they'd given Neal. He'd hoped Jones would discover it in the limo, but no luck.

Peter wanted very much to find that gun. The gun that had nearly gotten Neal killed, and that had provoked a highly intriguing conversation between the two of them that night, back at the office while they waited for Jones to return from dropping Sara off at the safe house.

* * *

_Neal had been taken aback when Peter told him that they'd heard nothing from his recorder watch from the time the driver had mentioned the briefcase and gloves._

"_Wow, I was really on my own there," he mused. His voice held no recrimination, though—typical for Neal—just mild surprise. "The driver did seem to wonder why I kept babbling on about my long flight."_

_Peter exhaled through his nose, pressing his lips into a thin line. Neal might be accepting this with equanimity, but Peter wasn't—far from it. He didn't like being reminded of how Neal, immersed in an operation in which he should have been protected, had instead been left completely on his own when everything went south. How Neal had been forced to convincingly impersonate a contract killer, and had nearly been shot by Sara Ellis. _

_And the worst thing, of course, was that Peter blamed himself. Neal could be reckless, and he bought trouble for himself, sometimes, when he went off-script during an op. He was supremely confident, and one of these days he was going to get himself into a situation his quick mind and silver tongue couldn't get him out of safely. Peter had warned him often enough that just because Neal was smart, that didn't make him bulletproof. He tried to impress on Neal the need to play it safe and the dangers of improvising._

_But not this time. This time, Peter's plan had been utterly inadequate, and Neal had been forced to compensate, which he'd done brilliantly, per usual. _

_It was Neal, after all, who had questioned the very idea that Halbridge would hire someone to transport the bonds for him. "He's taking a huge risk using a courier," Neal had remarked, that day in the conference room. Sara had scoffed, but Neal, of course, had been right. Halbridge hadn't hired a courier; he'd hired an assassin._

_As the agent in charge of the operation, it was Peter Burke's responsibility to consider all the contingencies before putting his people undercover and in harm's way. And while Neal had emerged safe and sound, that was due to his skills, rather than anything Peter had done. It didn't change the fact that Peter had badly miscalculated the possible risks in this operation, and Neal had nearly paid the price._

_The agent pushed those thoughts aside. From a personal standpoint, he'd like nothing better than to forget the whole incident and his own lack of foresight. Professionally, though, he needed to know the details—for the inevitable report he'd be filing, of course. _

_It had nothing to do with the fear he'd felt for Neal. _

Right.

"_Sketch it out for me, Neal."_

_Neal's smile was quick and appreciative as he raised his eyebrows delicately at Peter's choice of words. Peter tried to respond in kind, but he had a feeling it ended up as more of a grimace; he hadn't meant to be funny._

"_Well, you heard the driver say was that everything was as I'd requested. The gloves and the briefcase."_

"_Gloves," Peter said, pouncing on that immediately. "I did wonder about that."_

_Neal nodded approval that, of course, Peter had seized on the key aspect right away. "Yes, that was my first clue that all was not right with this situation—and that those other emails probably had some pretty damned interesting stuff in them. Why would a courier need gloves to carry a briefcase full of bonds?"_

_Here, he could have said "I told you so," but Neal refrained, no doubt aware that the failure to realize Black's true purpose was a sensitive topic for Peter._

_Neal shrugged casually. As with everything he did, it had an air of elegance to it._

"_Clearly I was expected to open the briefcase." Neal managed a small smile. "Fortunately, I was able to cover my discomfiture at the contents."_

_Peter frowned and shook his head. "Would you recognize the weapon again if you saw it?"_

_His consultant tilted his head to the side, raised his eyebrows, and favored him with Neal Caffrey Look #9: the patented, Come on Peter, what do you take me for? look. _

_With the extra added eye roll, it moved into Neal Caffrey Look #10, the Peter, if I didn't like you, I'd call you out for asking such a stupid question look._

"_Well, considering that I identified it, assembled it, loaded it, chambered a round, and sighted it—yes."_

_It wasn't easy to surprise Peter Burke—even for Neal, who Peter knew prided himself on his own unpredictability. These days, Peter was on to him so much of the time that the element of surprise was probably, in Neal's opinion, sadly lacking. _

_But Neal had gotten Peter this time. Peter couldn't hide his shock, and he knew that Neal was allowing himself to savor, just for a moment, the satisfaction of catching Peter off guard for once._

"_You don't like guns," Peter finally managed, like he was responding to an argument—except no one had made an argument. "You're not a gun guy."_

_Neal instantly picked up on the conversation Peter was quoting._

"_Nope. But just because I don't like something doesn't mean I'm not good at it."_

_Peter just looked at him._

_Neal sighed impatiently. His gaze moved from Peter to gaze out the window into the darkness of the city beyond. His voice turned cold, the words sounding as if he were reciting from memory, deliberately detached. "The briefcase contained a disassembled Ruger Mark II, with a tactical solutions receiver and a red-dot holographic sight. Rimfire, semi-auto. A fine weapon for a hit man." He paused._

And how the hell would **you** know that?

_Before Peter could say what he'd been thinking, Neal resumed, in a lighter tone that sounded like himself again. "Or so the book says."_

_Of course Neal _would _know about that. Peter remembered the controversy all too well. The Ruger Mark II was cheap and proven. It had been a suggested weapon of choice in a how-to book for budding professional killers that had been published back in the '80s. The publisher had been sued when a man allegedly using the book as a guide had killed three people._

"_You've read 'Hit Man.'" _

"_Actually the complete title is 'Hit Man: A Technical Manual for Independent Contractors,'" Neal corrected him, sounding pedantic. "Yes, I've read it. Hasn't everybody?"_

"_Not since all the copies were destroyed by court order."_

"_Oh, there are a few still out there," Neal said loftily. _

"_Obviously," Peter said between gritted teeth. When Neal had talked about the gun, he'd sounded like a pro, for God's sake. It was disturbing, somehow. And probably a useful reminder that, however much he liked to think he knew Neal, there was plenty of which he was ignorant. Perhaps blissfully so._

"_Okay. So you know your firearms." Peter could hear an unusual note in his own voice. To Neal it might have sounded like suspicion, or disappointment, because when he swung his gaze back sharply from the darkness to Peter, there was a peculiar look on his face. Guilt, maybe? Whatever it had been, it faded when he saw that Peter wasn't angry or upset—only concerned._

"_Yes. I know about them. But I don't like them and I sure as hell don't use them. It's just that some things you have to educate yourself about," Neal said, a little more tartly than he'd meant to. "I'd wager that you, for example, know a hell of a lot more than you'd like to about child pornography. But you had to—for the job."_

_How Neal knew about Peter's fairly brief stint in Cyber Crimes, Peter had no idea. _

_Then again, he'd never figured out how Neal knew the date of his anniversary either . . . ._

* * *

Nor had he known about Neal's preferences in chocolate. Not until this case.

Peter stared at the half-eaten chocolate lying on the back seat of the limo. As soon as he saw it, he _knew_.

He had that disoriented feeling that follows immediately after a sudden shock—as if the world had abruptly stopped turning, but he was still moving. The ambient street noise faded away to silence in that second. Peter froze where he was, for just an instant, a cold chill spreading through him. All the satisfaction he'd felt a moment ago, after taking down Halbridge, had vanished.

Another miscalculation. _Damn, damn, damn._

Neal's casual comment in the office, upon seeing the German chocolate bar. The words echoed loudly in Peter's mind.

_Not a fan of the bittersweet._

Neal wouldn't have eaten that chocolate. The driver might have, but likely wouldn't have left it there to clutter up the limo he was responsible for.

_Black_, on the other hand . . . .

"Where's Mr. Black?"

Jones seemed a bit taken aback by the question. Which made sense, Peter realized, because Jones hadn't been there for that conversation. He didn't know what the presence of that chocolate bar in the back seat of the limo could mean.

Jones' reply was instantaneous. "The Canadians are holding him."

"You sure?" Peter demanded.

"Last we checked." Jones had sensed Peter's concern, even if he wasn't sure of the reason for it.

"Find out." Peter was already turning away, He needed to talk to the driver, but he feared that he already knew what the man was going to say.

_Oh, Jesus. Sara._

_TBC…._

* * *

_A/N The book "Hit Man" which recommended this particular firearm, the Ruger Mark II – and the murders and the lawsuit that followed - are real. More information is available by searching the term "hit man" at the Freedom Forum dot org website. __  
_

_More coming soon. If you've got a moment to share your thoughts, reviews are greatly appreciated!_


	2. Heart and Courage

**Chapter 2**

**Heart and Courage**

"_... that's how life should be, when one person loses heart, the other must have heart and courage enough for both."  
_― José Saramago, _The Cave _

* * *

Okay, Sara thought to herself, 911 had been alerted; help was on the way. Finally, something positive. She had to do what she could to make that fact relevant for Caffrey. To keep him alive until help arrived.

_While also keeping an eye on that bastard Black every second._

She grabbed the first piece of cloth she could find and rushed back to Caffrey's side, inhaling sharply at the sight. So much blood._ Too much. _ His whole side was red with it, and a dark pool was beginning to form beside him, the stain spreading out on the hardwood floor.

_Don't think about it. Focus, Sara. Make yourself useful. Help him._

Hurriedly, she jammed herself into the small space next to him, kneeling down. She had to try to stop the bleeding. Sara was no doctor, but that much she knew. The 911 operator, in one of her rare useful moments, had said as much, too. But she'd have to do it one-handed, because she wasn't going to risk putting her weapon down with the shooter possibly still alive a few feet away. Using her left hand, she bunched up what she realized was a Hermes scarf—_oh, well_—took a deep breath and prayed.

Then she pressed down on the gunshot wound. Hard, because she knew she had to.

Caffrey's eyes shot open with frightening suddenness, huge pools of dark blue in his chalk-white face. She had never seen anything like the raw, naked pain in his eyes at that moment, and she desperately wanted to look away. But Sara Ellis was no coward and so she stayed with him, stayed focused on those anguished eyes. His whole body stiffened and then arched off the floor, but he couldn't sustain it and quickly sank down again.

She had no doubt that Caffrey would have cried out if he could. But screams take energy and air to produce, and he could spare neither. He gasped, managing a little sound that had no words but nonetheless conveyed the exquisite agony she was causing him. The note she heard in his voice sent a hundred tiny rivers of ice down her spine.

Biting her lip, she swore under her breath, and stared into those startling eyes, locked onto hers as if nothing else existed in the world.

"Caffrey, look, I'm sorry. I know this hurts like hell and you're pissed beyond words, which you have every right to be, and you can get back at me later when you're better, but I've got to try and stop the bleeding." It all came out in a rush, and his reaction shocked her.

He lay there for a minute, breathing shallowly, his face a mask as he tried to control the pain, but his eyes never left hers. A moment later, he blinked, slowly, and his mouth quirked in a tiny approximation of a smile. It was a pale, pale shadow of his normal toothy, untrustworthy grin, but in that moment it looked damn good.

Sara knew better than to trust a Neal Caffrey smile—she'd even told him so—but this time, she wanted to. God, she _wanted_ to trust it so badly, even though she knew she couldn't.

He swallowed hard before he could speak. "Sara . . ." Not much more than a whisper, and so hoarse that it didn't sound like him at all, but she would take it.

Relief flooded through her, bringing a smile to her face. "Hey, you're with me. Good. I'm sorry, Caffrey. Sorry I wasn't a second quicker. Wasn't good enough."

He frowned, made just the slightest movement with his head to indicate _no_. Then he took in a breath, blinked sluggishly, and said, "Get him?"

"Yeah." She looked over again at the killer—still not moving—before returning her gaze to Caffrey.

He didn't move his head this time, but his eyes followed hers to the other man's body and swung slowly back up again to her face. He smiled again, a little broader this time. "Then you . . . did good enough."

"You too," she answered. She thought of him, in that moment right after the bullets had come through the door, tearing through the thick wood as if it were balsa. She'd been standing there, paralyzed by a potentially deadly combination of shock and terror, but Caffrey hadn't been. He'd reached out, grabbed for her and, more importantly, grabbed the purse that held her weapon. "If you hadn't thought to get my bag, I never would have had the chance, but I should have—"

At that, he actually rolled his eyes a little. "You pack heat. Hard to—to forget that . . . 'n stop worrying. Did fine."

She smiled back and shrugged, glanced down at the blood and back up, fought to keep her tone light. "Maybe. But the fact remains: your suit is ruined. I know that's going to bother you."

He did a pretty good job of sounding dismissive. "Ah . . . got plenty more."

He did, too—she'd seen them. The suits Caffrey wore were designer, and expensive; in a roomful of unremarkably dressed FBI agents, they were impossible to miss. Plus, if there was one thing Sara was an expert on, it was high-end clothes. And so, naturally, she'd wondered: Didn't it bother Burke and the FBI that Caffrey openly flaunted his ill-gotten gains by spending it on a flashy wardrobe? How else could he afford such expensive clothes, if not by drawing on some hidden cache? The FBI didn't give that kind of clothing allowance to anyone, let alone convicted felons, and presumably he'd been released from prison with the clothes on his back and not much else. Of course, she wouldn't dream of asking Peter about it, but it was just another aspect of their arrangement that she didn't pretend to understand.

_And she should not be thinking about that now, when his lifeblood was leaking out through her fingers._

"Suits . . . aren't mine, y'know." _Jesus, was he a mind reader?_ "Friend's husband . . . same size." A beat later he added, "Thought maybe . . . you wondered."

Immediately she felt guilty for even thinking about it. He was watching her intently—smugly? She shook her head at being caught out. "Well, hell."

That made him smile—for real—and she smiled back for a long moment before his face slackened. He drew in a shuddering breath, twitching faintly before he quieted. As his eyes began to close, she felt a pang of terror at the knowledge that he was already fading, with no help in sight, with nothing she could do . . . .

Her mind raced, trying to think of something to say to rouse him, to keep him talking.

"Hey, Caffrey, help's on the way, okay? So, 'til they get here, you gotta stay with me."

"Tryin'," he murmured through gritted teeth.

"You'd damn well better. It—it's not your time. Know how I know? Because I still haven't tried that soup."

He squeezed his eyes shut and then blinked them open. It took him a few beats to focus on her again, a few more seconds after that before he could speak. "Make . . . a mean . . . French onion."

"Oh, yeah?" she challenged. "I'll believe it when I taste it."

"Trust me. N-need—patience and time . . . and . . . sh—sherry," he managed. "Don't tell."

"Secret ingredient—I get it. No problem; I can keep a secret," she assured him.

He was quiet for a moment, eyelids fluttering.

"It . . . it burns," he said faintly, after a long pause, and it took her a minute to realize he wasn't talking about soup anymore, but rather the wound—and the agony she was causing him. The non sequitur made her heart stutter, as did the plaintive, piteous quality of his voice. It reminded her of a plea a child might make to its mother, and it was so far from the cocksure, always-in-control Neal Caffrey that it scared her.

It was as if he was already gone.

"I'm sorry, Caffrey, so sorry," she told him, not knowing what else to say, knowing how inadequate it was. "Just—just try to hold on, okay?" She felt the first traces of sheer panic begin to seep in, chipping away at the calm she was trying to project.

More seconds ticked by and he didn't speak. His eyes had slipped shut again and she thought he might have fallen back into unconsciousness. She was about to try to rouse him again when he startled her.

His voice was weaker than before, and she had to lean down a little closer to catch the words. His breath, faint though it was, was warm on her face.

"Thought you'd . . . wanna ask . . . about Raphael." His eyes were open again, not as wide this time and clouded with pain, but still fixed on her face. He was not smiling now.

The stolen painting. Her heart clenched painfully in her chest at the unspoken implication that this might be her last chance to pose the question.

_Damn it._ She had to sit up and look away, pretending to check the wound and the killer while she blinked furiously to clear her vision. It took a second for her to realize she was blinking away tears.

This time, it was she who had to take a breath before she could speak.

"Oh, nooo. Hell, no." She fought to sound poised and unconcerned. More like herself. "Maybe if I thought you were dying, Caffrey, well, maybe _then _I'd ask. But that's not happening here. Ambulance will be here any minute. So forget about it." She paused and then pasted on a smile; maybe in his current state Caffrey wouldn't notice how fake it was.

"Y—your big chance," he added, just before his body jerked with a uncontrollable spasm of pain and then a long agonized exhale that hurt just to watch. He blinked slowly and gritted his teeth, trying so hard not to cry out that the effort was visible. She watched, almost mesmerized, as his left fist clenched, the knuckles white and quivering, and then slowly uncurled, his nails scratching the hardwood floor for a moment before his fingers straightened, bit by bit, to press against the floor, as if he were bracing himself against . . . something. Maybe against the pain. He inhaled, a horribly loud, rasping sound, and his voice was rough when he finally spoke again. "Chance to keep . . . keep me talking."

God, it was just _like him_ to throw her own words back at her.

"Where's the fun in that?" she countered, dragging her eyes away from the pitiful sight of his hand now restlessly, helplessly moving against the smooth wood, as if seeking purchase, or respite that would not come. "But I'll give you fair warning. I may just pay you a visit in the hospital. When you're on the good drugs, right? Maybe we'll talk about the painting then—what do you say?"

He had closed his eyes again, but he was smiling wanly in spite of himself.

"Think I . . . want . . . lawyer."

She snorted. "With that protective mother hen, Peter Burke, around? I don't think so. He'd probably get a restraining order barring me from coming within 50 feet."

He tried to laugh; it ended up just an exhalation of breath, punctuated by a wince.

"No, I guess you're right," she amended, heartened that at least he'd reacted, even as she felt a fresh spike of fear at seeing the pain showing so obviously on his face. "That's a bit extreme for Peter. The restraining order wouldn't bar me from coming near you, just from asking about the Raphael."

He opened his eyes again, going for a stern look and not quite succeeding. "Not sure you . . . understand our . . . relationship."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, I don't. Believe me, I _know _I don't."

"Com . . . pli . . .cated," he agreed. It took him a long time—too long—to finish the word. He'd grown serious again. As he shivered involuntarily, she saw him grimace from the pain of the movement. _Shock_, she realized abruptly. He was slipping into shock. Not good. His skin was starting to feel cool; he needed warmth. She wished she had a blanket to throw over him, but nothing was within reach and she didn't want to leave his side, didn't dare to remove the pressure from the hole in his abdomen.

He took another shallow breath—she could see the effort it took, just for him to draw in air—and licked his lips before saying hoarsely, "Speaking of Peter . . ."

His voice faded away, but she thought she already knew what he was going to say.

She had guessed right. After catching his breath, Caffrey said, "Need—need to tell Peter . . . thank him taking . . . chance on me and this . . . 's not his fault—"

"Nope, sorry, Caffrey. No can do. Whatever you want to tell that one, you're going to have to do yourself. You just said it: your relationship is much too _complicated_ for me to be your go-between."

She thought about the bet she'd made with each of them—and lost. Peter supremely confident that Caffrey would reference "The Tell-Tale Heart"; Caffrey so sure that Peter would demand more evidence. They knew each other so well. Anyone would think they'd been working together years, rather than months. In that moment—and in so many others on this case, she realized—they had seemed nothing at all like cop and felon. They acted like real, honest-to-God partners.

Sara had never had a partner. Never wanted one, never needed one.

So why was it that, watching Burke and Caffrey, she'd felt a quite unlooked-for, quite unfamiliar pang of . . . well, at the time she'd refused to admit it, but she knew what it had been.

_Envy. _

Envy at how well they knew each other—and complemented each other. At the easy camaraderie they shared. At the sheer, undeniable pleasure they got out of working together.

Caffrey pressed, his voice urgent. "Want 'im to know . . . ."

Her frustration boiled over. "Then tell him _yourself_, goddammnit! You'll have plenty of time to talk his ear off while you're recovering. You are not dying, do you hear me?"

He muttered weakly, something she couldn't catch, except for the word _bossy_.

"Hmph. Tell me something I don't know," she shot back.

He started to talk, then coughed, a wet, raw sound that tore at her heart, followed by a low moan of pain. After a minute, when he'd recovered a bit, he said, sounding defeated, "Doesn't matter . . . anyway. Won't make . . . splash."

It took her a few seconds to make the connection. Then it hit her. Her self-absorbed whining about the meaning of her "death," during their impromptu rooftop dinner. Caffrey's gentle teasing—_"What, your passing didn't make a big enough splash?"_

A chill slithered down her spine. "Bullshit," she said succinctly. "Peter Burke, for one, would disagree. And I'm pretty sure he'd be the first in a long line. But we're not having that discussion because—at the risk of being really repetitive—you're not going to die."

He sighed. "Yeah. Peter'll care. Too much. Need to—have to tell him . . ." he stopped to gasp for breath, or maybe just to ride out a wave of pain.

Caffrey had closed his eyes and when he opened them, the look of utter desperation there took her breath away. She didn't have the heart to cut him off again

Long seconds later he resumed. "Tell him I . . . know what a risk he took . . . with—with me. Tried not . . . let him down—and sometimes I even—even succeeded. And please tell him . . . not his fault, tell him he . . . he doesn't . . . ."

Christ, he just wouldn't leave it alone. She was fully prepared to yell at him again for giving her his goddamned last words to pass on to Burke—just as soon as he finished the thought. Except that he didn't finish. He just left the sentence hanging in the air. His eyes had fallen shut, and his breathing seemed more labored.

_Oh, God. No._

"Caffrey? Stay with me. Come on, now."

No answer.

"I'm waiting, Caffrey. You didn't finish. Don't you dare leave me hanging like that."

_Nothing. He was so quiet, so still. As if he was—_

_No. __**No. **__He couldn't be._

Panic rose in her gut, filled her chest, made her head pound and her heart race.

"Neal? _Neal! _ Goddamnit it, answer me. Answer me right now! You're not dying today, do you hear me?"

Seconds ticked by with no answer. Caffrey seemed to have slipped into unconsciousness. She had told him he wasn't going to die. And he seemed really intent—as he had always been since she'd known him—on proving that she was wrong yet again. _Damn him._

"Neal! Come on, Neal. Talk to me." She took a gulp of air and did what she'd never thought she'd do. "_Please, Neal._ You just have to hold on for a few more minutes, okay? Come _on_, Neal, dammit. Hold on. _Please._"

Nothing.

Sara was suddenly desperate to make sure that he was still with her. But with no free hand to feel for his pulse, she knew only one way to do it. So, bending down low, she turned her head so her ear was just above Caffrey's mouth, almost touching, and held it there, waiting and hoping, her eyes closed.

She waited. Waited in the silence as fear took hold deep inside her, gathering strength. There was an actual physical pain in her chest now, as if terror was shattering her heart, the jagged shards piercing her flesh from the inside.

_No. He can't be gone. Not yet._

She kept waiting. And hoping. And praying.

A moment later—it felt like an eternity, but Sara knew it was only a few seconds—she let out a sigh of relief at feeling the little puff of moist air on her skin that meant he was still alive and breathing.

"Good, that's good. Stay with me, Neal. Just breathe, okay?" Straightening up once more, she could hear the quaver in her voice and pushed it away, angry with herself. She needed to sound confident. If there was any chance Neal was hearing her, he needed to hear confidence. Not desperation, not terror.

"Just breathe," she continued, in a tone that was now, thank God, more like her usual in-charge self. "In and out. 'Til they get here, okay? Just hold on for a little while. It won't be long. You can do it."

Sara tried to focus on her anger, to draw strength from it. Because otherwise the terror was going to consume her, take all of her breath and will away as Neal Caffrey's life flickered out before her eyes.

While she could do nothing but helplessly watch it happen.

_TBC . . . ._

_A/N—Thanks to everyone following and reviewing—so glad you are enjoying. Comments always welcome and much appreciate-you have no idea how much! _

_I know that Sara is a polarizing character, but I hope, whatever your feelings toward her may be, that you found it diverting to get inside her head for a bit and, in particular, to explore her perspective on the Peter/Neal relationship (outsider perspectives on that foundational relationship are always fascinating to me)_

_Last point: sorry for the lack of Peter in this chapter (I missed him, myself). The good news is that he plays a pretty prominent role in the next part, which is coming soon . . . ._


	3. Trembling in the Balance

Not a Fan of the Bittersweet

**Chapter 3**

**Trembling In the Balance**

"The suspense: the fearful, acute suspense: of standing idly by while the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance . . . ."

— Charles Dickens

* * *

_"Where's Sara?"_

Peter didn't need to say anything else. The grim implications of Black's being on the loose were all too obvious. For now, he set aside his fury at the Canadians for failing to notify the FBI of Black's release.

He had much bigger worries at the moment.

Jones was already speed-dialing the office. He listened, face creasing into a frown. "According to Blake, she and Caffrey left the office about an hour ago."

"_Caffrey's_ with her?" Peter rubbed his forehead and tried to keep the worry out of his voice, with limited success.

"He borrowed a car, offered her a ride home."

_Damn it. _"Of course he did," Peter said resignedly. How the hell did Neal always manage to be in the middle of trouble? Could the man, just once, be where he was supposed to be? _Jesus_.

Jones held up a finger, listening again. "Hold on—what?" Another pause and then the agent added, "Blake thinks they were stopping off at her office first."

Peter seized on that shred of hope. "Maybe they're still there."

* * *

Caffrey was fading fast, Sara grimly acknowledged to herself. She'd talked to him, yelled at him, cursed him, ordered him to wake up and answer her. And she wasn't the pleading type, but finally, as a last resort, she'd even tried that. Caffrey was unresponsive to the threats, orders, cajoling.

Of course, she kept talking to him anyway.

Meanwhile, the pool of blood she was kneeling in was alarmingly large. She knew it probably meant there was an exit wound that was bleeding freely. Fear sliced into her heart at the realization that he didn't have much time. Sara had done a few ride-alongs with friends who were cops, years ago. She'd seen two homicides and a couple of fairly gruesome crime scenes. But she'd never seen this much blood on anything—well, not counting the corpses she'd seen.

And right now she really, really didn't want to count those.

The initial burst of adrenaline had faded, leaving her limp and exhausted. The gun weighed heavy on her right hand; she finally rested it on the floor, still keeping a tight grip on it and still pointing it at the killer. Though he hadn't moved, she was taking no chances. Her legs were cramping painfully, but she couldn't allow herself to move. She'd been kneeling here—how long? It felt like hours, but she knew it had only been a few minutes.

They were minutes Caffrey couldn't afford, though.

Her mind started to wander, stream of consciousness taking over. She was trying to think about something other than the utter, damning helplessness she felt as Caffrey lay dying beside her.

She replayed her conversation with the world's most inquisitive 911 operator. No, that wasn't fair. The operator was just following her training, but the endless questions had made her want to scream and, well, the more Sara thought about it, she knew she hadn't handled it well.

She thought about how long it would take the police to sort this out when they got here. About what it would look like to them when they found her, weapon in hand, while two men lay bleeding on her floor with gunshot wounds.

Well, Burke would help. He knew the score.

Sara winced. _Oh, Christ. Another big mistake. _ She should have given Peter's name to 911, told them to call him. _Maybe they would have asked you, Sara, if you hadn't hung up on them. Or if you hadn't left your phone on the other side of the room, you could call him yourself. _

What stupidity. Her brain had gone to mush. Meanwhile, her abandoned phone had rung multiple times since she'd dropped it. It was probably—_oh, shit_.

_Peter doesn't know._

A scene flashed through her mind where she had to tell Peter Burke that Caffrey was dead.

Sara was a good talker. She was accustomed to thinking on her feet and had always considered herself glib. Okay, not Neal-Caffrey-glib—_who was?_—but reasonably competent. Still, when she tried to imagine the words she'd use to tell Burke that Caffrey had been killed, she failed utterly.

She flashed back to their conversation of yesterday in the conference room. The memory of her flippant comment about Caffrey sent a chill through her.

"_Neal came by. We had a nice little chat," she'd said. _

"_Is he in one piece?" Peter had asked dryly._

"_Yes, I left him whole."_

"_Good. I prefer him that way."_

So, _take two_ of that conversation would go something like this . . .

"_Neal came with me. We were surprised by Mr. Black."_

"_Is he in one piece?"_

"_No, I wasn't quick enough, Peter. I'm so sorry."_

Just a few days ago, in this same apartment, she had held a gun on Caffrey and come _this close _to firing it; she shuddered now to think how close. Now she was fighting to keep him alive.

And she had to keep him alive. If she didn't, Burke might kill her himself.

* * *

Peter's optimism about Neal and Sara's whereabouts was short-lived.

A quick call to Sterling Bosch's New York office confirmed that Sara Ellis had stopped by to pick up her mail and then left. When, exactly? No one was quite sure—maybe a half hour ago?

Initially, when the driver admitted that Black had returned to finish the job, Peter had thought his worst fears were being realized. He'd been worried about Sara.

How wrong he'd been—given what he now knew.

_Neal's with her._

As Diana drove to the apartment, Peter and Jones took turns dialing Caffrey's and Sara's phones. No answer, no response to texts. Neal's phone went straight to voicemail, which in and of itself was not a good sign. Peter also attempted—unsuccessfully—to reach some NYPD contacts.

After a while, they gave up and watched silently as Diana fought through the traffic.

Peter tried not to focus on the overwhelming sense of dread he felt, cold and dark, pooling in his gut. He couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible had happened.

He'd never hoped so fervently to be wrong.

* * *

Sara had resorted to watching the movement of Neal's chest. Shallow and barely there, but visible. It was all she had, and she clung to it like a drowning woman to a life preserver.

She had resorted to praying. _Please, God, let them get here now. Please, before he dies. _

Neal was long past moving, long past talking, long past any awareness of himself or his surroundings. She'd tried to rouse him, kept trying and trying, until finally she'd had to admit there was no point. So she hung on every rise and fall that proved he still lived; as if he would keep breathing so long as she watched. Each breath was a small victory she treasured.

And all the while, she talked to him. Neal couldn't speak, couldn't respond, but maybe he could listen. So she kept up a steady stream of inane chatter and commentary that she hoped perhaps, somehow, would help keep him tethered to the here and now. Talking was better than screaming, which was what she felt like doing. Plus, when she stopped, the quiet in the apartment became like a living thing, threatening to overwhelm her, to swallow her.

In the quiet, everything was more real. In the quiet, all she could think about was that nightmarish sound he'd made when she pressed on the wound. The plaintive, helpless quality of his voice – _it burns. _The pain-dulled blue of his eyes just before they slid shut. The warm wetness of the blood Caffrey was still losing, soaking the scarf and her fingers in red.

And whether the message he'd given to her to tell Peter would be his last words.

In the quiet, it was hard not to cry. So instead, Sara kept on with her desperate soliloquy.

She started off with the background of the car repossession she'd brought Peter and Neal into the other day. True, grand theft auto wasn't Caffrey's specialty, but still, he might be curious. Curiosity, in fact, seemed to be one of his defining traits. So he'd probably be interested, right?

She shared a couple of her pet theories about how he'd nabbed the Raphael and where it was now. Then she debated with herself the question of whether Neal had it cached somewhere with the rest of his loot, or if he'd fenced it when he'd needed cash.

Having exhausted that subject, Sara moved on to speculation about how in the blue hell he had convinced Peter Burke to agree to this crazy arrangement they had. Though, to be honest, she had known Peter when he was chasing Caffrey the first time—and when she thought back on that, Peter's acquiescence wasn't _quite_ as far-fetched as it had appeared at first glance . . . .

She even apologized—well, in a roundabout way—for how she'd acted after the night of the break-in, when they'd faked her death. Sara had been shaken, more than she wanted to admit, by the evening's events, and it had shown in her acerbic comments to Peter and her curt manner toward Neal afterwards. The truth was, Neal hadn't been standing over her with a gun. He'd come in the door and stood there, not approaching. Only after having some time to think had she considered it from his perspective—how terrifying it must have been for Neal, forced to enter a stranger's house, with a gun, in the dead of night. Knowing that he risked the driver shooting him if he didn't enter, and an armed homeowner shooting him if he did.

Neal had also been very, very careful never to point the Ruger at her—even when she'd aimed at him. For lots of people, when faced with a gun, it would be a natural, instinctive reaction to raise your own weapon—well, if you were in any way predisposed to violence, that is. The fact that Neal hadn't done so spoke volumes. And when she'd hatched the plan to make it appear that he'd killed her, Neal had wanted no part of firing those shots, harmless though they were. Wordlessly, he'd handed the gun to her so she could do it.

So, yeah, she talked about all of that, trying, awkwardly, to tell Neal that she'd overreacted, that she probably could have handled the aftermath better. Sara wasn't much of an apologizer, but she did her best.

Finally, when she was starting to run out of things to say, Sara heard the blessed, glorious scream of sirens. Normally they were the scourge of any New Yorker trying to get a moment's peace, but now they'd suddenly transformed into the sweetest sound in the world. Her prayers had been answered.

Not bad for someone who never went to church anymore.

She leaned down, close to his ear, again sending up a prayer of thanks that she could still feel a faint breath. "They're here, Neal. You're going to be okay."

The first part was true. The second part—well, she _wanted_ to believe it was true.

The sound of footsteps pounded out in the living room; she could feel the vibration through the wood as she knelt.

"_In here!_" she shouted, registering dimly that the frantic note in her own voice was new to her. "We need help in here!"

Two NYPD uniformed officers entered the room cautiously, guns drawn. Slowly she released her weapon, moved her hand away, and held it out in the air non-threateningly.

"You're Sara Ellis? You called this in?"

"Yes, there's the man I shot. He was still alive last I checked." She jerked her head in Black's direction, temper making her even more bitchy than normal. "It's great you're here, but where the hell are the paramedics? This man is dying."

In a moment, they were next to her, introducing themselves as Officers Barrett and Martino, and assessing the shooter and Caffrey. She swallowed hard when she saw the unmistakable look they exchanged after seeing the blood on him, on her, on the floor.

"Are you injured, ma'am?" Barrett asked. He bent carefully over the shooter, first scanning the body, then feeling for a pulse.

"No. It's . . . it's his blood, not mine." She looked down at Neal, concentrating on his face and not on the ghastly wound. His lips had begun to take on a slight bluish tint, she realized in horror. "He's an FBI agent. His name is Neal Caffrey. He needs help. Please."

She heard the pleading note in the last word, hated how it sounded, but it was for Caffrey, so she put her pride aside.

"Where's the other weapon?" Barrett asked.

"I kicked it over there—under the shelves." With her head, she indicated the far corner of the room.

"Only one shooter?" Martino chimed in.

"Yes," she said. "Just him. Well, not counting me."

Barrett smiled grimly at that. A cop's smile.

Martino was already kneeling in the small space next to her, carefully picking up her weapon, and spoke into his radio, anger lacing every syllable. "_All clear. _Repeat, all clear. _Officer down. _I got an FBI agent bleeding out here, for Chrissake. Where the hell's the bus? We needed it five minutes ago, understand?"

She'd only known Martino for about thirty seconds, but she loved him already.

A moment later he said, "ETA for the paramedics is less than a minute."

She smiled and nodded her thanks, bent down again. "Hear that, Caffrey? Almost here."

No answer, but the faint wheezing of another shallow breath. Better than nothing.

Barrett stood up from his examination of the gunman. "He's dead," he told his partner. Martino nodded, called it in.

_So the bastard's dead, after all._

_Good._

* * *

While Diana drove, Peter was as restless as it was possible to be while wearing a seat-belt in a moving car. His gaze darted back and forth, alternating between checking his phone, frowning as he stared through the windshield, and turning to look out the passenger side window, never resting anywhere for more than a few seconds. In between fruitless calls to Neal and Sara, he consulted his phone. He called more NYPD contacts, who'd promised to get back to him, who'd promised him to have a patrol car check it out (m_aybe they'll get there first, _Peter thought). He shifted impatiently in his seat, fiddling with the belt. He drummed his fingers on the car door. Finally he switched on the rarely-used police scanner. It crackled to life with all the police activity of a typical New York City day—robberies, traffic accidents, muggings, break-ins. The usual.

Suddenly they heard the words, " . . . 8602 Second Street, Park Slope?"

_Sara's address_.

Peter grabbed for the volume, turned it up high.

The dispatcher responded, "Roger that, we have a 187 confirmed."

Peter froze, his hand still on the knob of the scanner. He and Diana exchanged a tense glance.

187 was cop-speak for homicide.

Through the static, the dispatcher spoke again, dispassionate tone belying the import of the words. "One dead, one wounded, shooting at 8602 Second Street, Park Slope. Uniforms and EMS on site, homicide and ME on the way."

For one long, heart-stopping moment, the three of them sat in stunned silence.

"_Jesus_." Jones' voice was low, but filled with horror.

Diana said simply, "No. No, it can't be." Just in time, she brought her eyes back to the street and hit the brakes, narrowly avoiding the taxi in front of them as the light up ahead turned red. With the car stopped, she took a quick glance at Peter.

All the color had drained out of her boss's face. In an instant, Peter had gone ashen.

He let his hand fall away from the scanner, face contorted with rage as he snarled an expletive Diana had never heard him utter before. Then Peter slammed his right elbow into the window hard enough that Jones, watching anxiously from the back seat, was afraid he'd crack the glass, or the bone, or both. Finally, Peter sat motionless, staring unseeing out the window. In moments of crisis, Peter was a fidgeter, a pacer. Jones couldn't remember ever seeing him so completely still.

Peter started to speak, had to stop and clear his throat before starting again.

"Drive faster," he said tersely, in a voice that sounded like a stranger's, but Diana was already speeding up. A horn honked as she cut someone off, swerving around stopped traffic. No one spoke again.

Just then Peter's phone rang, sounding loud in the silence. He grabbed it, hoping somehow to see Neal's name there (_Peter, you'll never guess what happened . . . _or, _Peter, we need help, Neal would say, breathlessly_), but it wasn't Neal, of course. _Because Neal was . . . Neal might be—_

_No. You don't know that. Don't say it, don't even fucking think it._

_One dead, one wounded. _The words reverberated inside his head, mocking him.

As horror flowed through him, chilling him to the marrow, Peter stared at the phone's display.

It was Elizabeth.

He swallowed hard, conscious of his heart racing in his chest, and jabbed at the button to send the call to voicemail. He didn't like doing that to El, but he couldn't talk to her right now. What the hell would he say?

"_Well, Neal might be dead, hon, but I'm not sure—let you know when I find out."_

He wasn't ready for that conversation. Not now.

_Not ever._

_TBC . . . ._

_A/N - Thanks to everyone who's along for the ride, following, favoriting, and, most especially, reviewing. All feedback is precious and greatly appreciated. Also, a special note of gratitude to the guest reviewers out there—sorry that I can't thank you personally the way I can the other reviewers, so this will have to do. It means so much that you take the time to share your thoughts—it's very motivating!_

_I know this is a tough place to leave things—sorry about that. Next part will be up before long…._


	4. Pulled Under

Not a Fan of the Bittersweet

**Chapter 4 **

**Pulled Under**

"_Guilt is intense. Suffocating. A brick, tied quietly around your ankles . . . . You never fall slowly into guilt—you wake up with little time to take your last breath before being pulled under." _

― Andrea Randall, _In The Stillness_

* * *

A moment later, the EMTs were there. _Finally. Thank you, God. _A female medic slid in next to her and nodded approvingly at the white-knuckle pressure Sara had on the wound. "You did good, ma'am," the woman told her. "We can take over now."

Martino came over. "Ms. Ellis, why don't you come with me while the EMTs help your friend?"

She nodded as she let go of Caffrey, started to get up, and was mortified when she found her legs collapsing weakly under her. Without Martino's help, she would never have made it.

Keeping a firm grasp on her arm, he supported some of her weight _(okay, probably most of it) _as he helped her step around the bodies, led her back out into the other room and sat her down. After a quick survey of the surroundings, Martino walked away for a moment, and came right back with a blanket which he proceeded to wrap around her shoulders. Her legs felt oddly numb, and then tingling pain started as circulation returned.

Sara breathed in and out, conscious of her lungs expanding and contracting, as she stared dully at the pile of mail. A few minutes ago, she'd been fretting about how much of it had piled up during her temporary death, about how long it would take to get through it all.

Jesus. She'd actually been worried about the goddamned _mail. _

The blanket felt nice. When had she started shivering, anyway? It wasn't cold in here. If anything, it was stuffy—like any place that had been uninhabited for days. _Neal had been cold, though, too cold . . . . _She tried to listen to what the medics were saying in the other room as they worked, but they spoke in low tones. Closer to her, someone else was talking, making it hard to hear. She frowned impatiently, because she couldn't see the medics—or Caffrey—any more from where she sat.

Martino bent down, directly in front of her. "—Ellis. Ms. Ellis. Are you sure you're all right?"

Unsure how long he'd been trying to get her attention, she forced herself back, concentrated on his worried gaze. _Focus, Sara. _"Sorry. I'm fine."

He looked as if he knew better than to believe her. "We can get the medics to check you out."

"_No_," she said vehemently, a semblance of her normal self returning at the ridiculous idea that she should get any sort of medical attention when it was Neal Caffrey who needed it, Neal who lay in the other room with death hovering nearby and the paramedics the only thing keeping it at bay. "I'm _fine_. Let them worry about Caffrey."

"They'll take good care of him. Ms. Ellis, can you tell me what happened here?"

She took a deep breath, then stopped to watch as Caffrey was hustled out. He'd been strapped to a backboard. Another uniformed cop was running alongside, accompanying the paramedics. They were giving him oxygen, and it looked like they had cut away Neal's clothes and put some kind of pressure bandage on the wound. Well, that was quick.

_It has to be. He doesn't have much time._

In an instant, just like that, they were gone.

She closed her eyes for a moment, then blinked them open. As the siren screamed away, she began to tell Martino her story.

* * *

_One dead, one wounded._

The words echoed, sing-song, in Peter's head, running together like some dark, twisted children's rhyme, and wouldn't stop. _Onedeadonewounded . . . ._

If Neal was dead, he'd never forgive himself. Never. Peter knew that. It was an automatic thing, like the fact that he loved his wife more than anything, and that El loved him back, just as unconditionally. It wasn't something he'd question, or think about—it just _was._ Neal was his responsibility—and had been since the moment he'd sauntered out of prison with that tracker on his ankle.

He, Peter Burke, chose the cases Caffrey worked on. _He _set up the undercover operations where Neal often ended up risking his life. _He_ sat, safe and secure in a surveillance van, usually far from the line of fire, while Neal faced criminals and loaded weapons on a regular basis. _He _relaxed, listening—even smiling sometimes—while Caffrey charmed his way out of whatever dangerous situation Peter had placed him in. To achieve arrests that would boost _Peter's _career, _Peter's _reputation. And Neal's reward? Another day of knowing that he wouldn't be returned to a prison full of hardened criminals eager to get their hands on a federal snitch.

And it didn't matter that Caffrey was a risk-taker, a daredevil, and probably an adrenaline junkie who enjoyed the hell out of most of it. Because it wasn't Peter's job to indulge Neal's potentially self-destructive impulses—just the opposite, in fact. The very idea that he might in any way be taking advantage of Neal's natural recklessness made Peter deeply uncomfortable.

No, what it really came down to, Peter thought, was choice—and whether someone in Neal's position had any.

_Neal never says no—to anything_.

Then a sharp internal voice retorted: _But how often do you really ask him?_

That was a tricky question. To call his and Neal's relationship a power struggle would be overstating it, but there was no doubt that Neal constantly tested boundaries, seeing just how far he could go. Because Neal would push it to the extreme and then some—if Peter would let him. And Peter understood instinctively the need to set very clear, very firm limits for his consultant. Sort of like a parent might do for a child.

_An incredibly intelligent, occasionally willful, and alarmingly impulsive child._

So Peter was firmly in charge, because he had to be. It didn't pay to let Neal think otherwise. As a general rule, asking Neal what he wanted to do was a chancy proposition, because there was no telling where that might lead. Giving Neal his head was a matter fraught with peril.

In the arrangement he and Neal had, Peter had always thought of consent as implicit, but lately he'd started to wonder: with the threat of prison hovering in the air, how legitimate was any consent Caffrey gave, really, anyway? After all, how many times had Peter mentioned a possible return to prison?

Plenty.

_Except that when you do that, you're usually kidding. _

_But maybe Neal doesn't find it all that funny._

And look at this case. Peter remembered, uncomfortably, how he'd planned Neal's role substituting for Mr. Black—without asking Neal. Without even bothering to _tell_ Neal. He'd sprung it on him in the conference room, in front of the group, and though Neal hadn't complained—to be fair, he rarely complained, not about the serious stuff—his consultant's faint annoyance had been unmistakable. Add to that the fact that the entire team, thanks to Sara and her pocket voice recorder, had been having a laugh at Neal's expense, and the whole thing had been a bit of piling on.

In retrospect, Peter had regretted the way he'd handled it, and he'd considered telling Neal that, somehow, but he hadn't found the time—or the words. After all, Neal was an adult—he was more than capable of handling minor slights. And Peter didn't believe in coddling felons, even if they were as charming as Neal. _Especially _if they were as charming as Neal . . . .

Anyway, apologizing to Neal just wasn't something that Peter did, normally. Peter figured it would set a bad precedent. Slippery slope and all that. Start apologizing to him and next thing you know, you'll be giving in to him. Or covering for him.

_As if you haven't done that already._

Then, of course, Peter's best-laid plan had gone to hell and Neal had nearly been shot by Sara. And now . . . now he might have been shot by the professional killer he'd unwittingly impersonated.

Images flashed through his mind, vivid and rapid-fire, of shooting victims he'd seen over the years. Except now, he saw Neal's face transposed onto the corpses, Neal motionless on the floor, Neal lying in a pool of blood . . . .

Peter swallowed hard, tasting bile.

When their arrangement had started, Peter had obsessed over his own responsibility for Neal's actions. Neal skirted the line between legal and illegal every day, and Peter had worried that someday his consultant would cross that line and drag Peter with him, irrevocably. Hughes had reminded him often enough: In the end, it would come back to Agent Burke, and Peter accepted it—he had to. Neal's work-release had been Peter's idea (well, after Neal had suggested it first, of course), and therefore any line-crossing that Neal did was Peter's responsibility.

But as time went on, Peter realized just how much of a two-way street the whole damn thing was. If he was responsible for what Neal did—well, he was also responsible for what was done _to_ Neal. When Neal was threatened, or shot at, or tasered and kidnapped—Peter knew he couldn't deny his own accountability. As these incidents piled up, it had begun to gnaw at him more and more, though Neal never said a word.

And Kate's death had only brought the problem into stark relief, because it exposed a vulnerability, a fragility in Neal that it had been easy for Peter to forget even existed. He'd become more and more uneasy about how Neal was being used, about the danger he was placed in as part of the job. Peter had talked with El about it, and he knew he needed to address it with Hughes—and most of all, with Neal. He just hadn't figured out exactly how, yet.

Now, he might not get the chance. If Neal was dead, Peter would have to live with the shattering knowledge that he'd cavalierly risked Neal's life, and that Neal had paid the ultimate price. But Peter would pay one too. For the rest of his life.

He would deserve every bit of the guilt that would crush him.

* * *

Sara sat there in a daze. A strange kind of numbness had enveloped her, making every limb feel leaden and immovable. Even her normally rapid thought processes had slowed to a sluggish crawl. Any movement, any thought seemed to take an inordinate amount of effort—so much that it wasn't worth it to even try. She was suddenly so tired. Not surprising, considering she hadn't slept well in days—sacking out in a conference room hardly qualified. And killing a man, then sitting helplessly by Caffrey while he slowly bled out, had drained what little energy she had left.

She let her gaze wander aimlessly around the apartment, which was now humming with activity. But she was careful not to look into the other room, where the killer's corpse lay. The sight of the body made her heart race and panic start to rise up in her, which she didn't understand because he was dead and she was safe, but something deep inside her apparently hadn't quite accepted that as fact, yet.

Homicide detectives had just arrived on the scene, seemingly in record time, along with forensics specialists and more uniforms. She was grateful that, for the moment, they were leaving her alone. It was only temporary, of course, she knew that. She'd killed a man—shot him in the back, no less—while witnessing the shooting of an FBI employee, and God only knew how many rounds of questioning it was going to take to wrap _that_ up.

Not that she cared, right now. She thought about Neal again, wondering once more how he was. She thought again of that pool of blood on the floor—_his blood_—and shivered.

She switched from looking around the room to looking at herself. Carefully, she scrutinized her left hand, the one she'd used to try to staunch the flow from the wound. It was resting on her lap, and, honestly, it was as if it belonged to someone else. Like she was detached from it. Somewhere along the way Martino had brought her something to wipe off the worst of the blood, though her actual memory of his doing so was dim. Her fingers were no longer wet, but the skin and her nails were still stained red. It would take some serious scrubbing to remove it. She looked down at her clothes—_again, his blood_. Soaked into her skirt where she'd knelt in it. Smeared and splattered on her blouse where her hand had dripped with it. The clothes were a total loss, she thought shakily. Everything a total loss.

_But not Caffrey, please, God, not him. Neal couldn't be lost. He couldn't._

She wished she could rip the clothes off right now and burn them. As if any of that mattered now, as if her outfit mattered one goddamn bit when, right now, someone, somewhere, was trying to keep Neal Caffrey from bleeding to death.

_Dress how you want to feel, right?_

She'd said that to Peter, just yesterday. It felt like a year ago.

_Oh, Jesus Christ in heaven. You fool. _

_Burke still doesn't know._

She turned to Officer Martino; he, along with his partner Barrett, had stayed at her side like that was their job. Maybe it was. Maybe they were there in case she suddenly started freaking out or something. _Freak-out detail, _she thought, a little unsteadily_—no doubt it was the aspiration of every NYPD beat cop._

"Officer, I need my phone—it's in . . . it's in there." She cut a quick glance toward the other room where Black lay, seeing that the body was now surrounded by various law enforcement types. "Or . . . I have to use yours—right now."

_Peter doesn't know._

Just then, the homicide detective, DeSalla, came up to her.

"Ms. Ellis, I need to ask you some questions. Can you tell me about your friend who was shot?"

"Sure. But we need to call the FBI first."

_You don't understand. I have to tell him. Peter doesn't know._

DeSalla was about to respond when his cell rang. He glanced at the screen and held up a finger, motioning her to wait as he stepped away, not bothering to hide his impatience at whoever was on the other end. "DeSalla. Yeah . . . what?" He frowned. She watched him intently, saw the confusion cross his face. A long pause ensued as he listened.

_Peter doesn't know, Peter doesn't know. _The words repeated in her head, louder and louder, threatening to drown out every other sound, every other coherent thought.

"On his ankle?" DeSalla shrugged. "Beats the hell outta me. Wait a sec."

He walked back to her. "Ms. Ellis?"

She looked up at him, only with great effort forcing her mind back to _now—_and away from the thoughts of Peter staring at her accusingly, his face white with horror after hearing the news that she'd let Neal get shot. "Yes?"

"The FBI agent who was shot, Neal Caffrey? Officer Carlson's at the hospital with him and says he's got some kind of tracker on his ankle. You know anything about that?"

She sighed inwardly, trying to get this over with as quickly as possible_._ "Technically, Neal's a consultant, not an agent. As a condition of his parole, he works for the FBI and he . . . he has to submit to electronic monitoring." Sara couldn't help thinking that, under other circumstances, Peter would be proud of how diplomatically she'd phrased that.

In her experience, cops didn't shock easily, and DeSalla was no exception. He looked mildly surprised to hear that the FBI "agent" was in reality a convicted felon, but he didn't question it, just nodded in that world-weary way cops had—_did they teach that at the academy?_—and relayed that to whoever was on the other end of the phone before hanging up.

Impatiently, she opened her mouth to tell them that this all could wait, that it would have to, because she needed to call Peter Burke. Needed to call him _right fucking now._

But DeSalla spoke first, and he was on the same wavelength. "Nobody's contacted the FBI yet, then?" He glanced around the room for confirmation before his gaze returned to her face. "Who should we contact at the Bureau about Caffrey?"

_Peter. Peter doesn't know. _The voice was still chanting in her head.

She looked at DeSalla and her gaze suddenly shifted to the left. Relief and shame flooded through her. She pointed. "Him."

Peter Burke had just burst through the doorway.

* * *

Diana had spent the last few nightmarish minutes inwardly cursing every traffic light, every pedestrian, every taxi, car, and truck that blocked her way as she navigated the clogged city streets. Which, in the middle of a New York afternoon, worked out to one hell of a lot of cursing.

Meanwhile, the silence in the car was deafening. Since his initial outburst, Peter hadn't said a word, and Jones was quiet too. Diana kept her eyes mostly fixed on the road. Occasionally she'd sneak a glance at Peter, but each time she did, she had to look away. The look of angry desperation on his face was harrowing; it made her heartsick to see it.

Finally, _finally_, they arrived at Sara's street. Breathing a sigh of relief, Diana turned the corner sharply, hoping for lighter traffic and a clear path at last, but had to slam on the brakes almost immediately. At the far end of the block, a utility crew had set up camp, narrowing the street down to one lane and halting traffic temporarily.

It was as if the fates were conspiring to slow them down yet again. They were so close, but now they were hemmed in on all sides, unable to go forward or back up. Diana swore in frustration—out loud this time—as she looked over at Peter's pale face, suffused with a swirl of emotions that made her gut twist.

Her boss had had enough. He grabbed for the seatbelt, cursing when it didn't immediately release, and finally unlatched it, ripping it off with an overt violence that made Diana want to recoil, because it was the antithesis of Peter.

'I'm going." Peter spat out the words as he threw the car door open, not waiting for anyone to answer. He jumped out and slammed the door hard enough that the whole car shook.

Then he started to run.

* * *

Peter was tired of sitting, tired of waiting, _so goddamned fucking tired _of doing nothing while the worst could be happening, right at the end of the street.

He had to get out of that damn car. He had to get out of there and find out if Neal and Sara . . . if either of them was still alive.

Neal was his responsibility, yes, but it hadn't escaped Peter—_how could it?_—that not one, but two lives hung in the balance. No, he was all too aware of the horrifying reality of the situation. If his desperate wish that Neal was alive came true, that meant, in all likelihood, that Sara was dead. Peter already felt an appalling level of guilt at the notion that, in hoping Neal was safe, he was essentially hoping that Sara had been killed.

Normally, Peter wasn't the kind of person to avoid hard truths, but this one . . . his mind shrank from the thought. For either Neal or Sara to be saved, just the one of them, at the cost of the other's life—it was repellent. He couldn't accept it, couldn't contemplate it. His brain seemed to shut down every time he circled back to it. And yet he couldn't stop himself.

_Onedeadonewounded, _the voice in his head reminded him, mocking and incessant.

The _not knowing _was torture—and would be surpassed, he knew, only by the devastation of actually _knowing_. Knowing that Sara was dead. Or that Neal was gone forever.

Finally free of the car, he ran the last two blocks to Sara's apartment, automatically counting down house numbers as he went. Peter hadn't been there the night when Neal had ended up playing contract killer, so he had no way of recognizing it otherwise.

The echoing chant in his mind _onedeadonewounded _rang out in time with his steps pounding on the pavement, creating a macabre kind of rhythm. Little shock waves of pain traveled up through his calves, his knees, from the force of his feet hitting the concrete. His chest, tight with fear, burned as he forced air into his lungs to maintain a sprinter's pace, dodging meandering dog walkers and oblivious mothers pushing strollers on the narrow, tree-lined sidewalk. He reached the end of the block and ran into the street, dimly cognizant of brakes screeching and a horn honking as he rushed through traffic, heedless of the cars.

He crossed the street and kept running. Another half-block and he'd reached the police barrier. He slowed only briefly to flash his ID at the uniforms who stood in his way, and kept going.

_Onedeadonewounded_

_Please, not Neal. Not Sara._

_Not like this._

Peter took the small flight of steps into the building two at a time, badge still held out like a talisman against anyone foolish enough to try to impede his progress. Hearing a voice, he felt the touch of a hand on his arm and snarled _FBI, _shoving his ID at them like a weapon to push them off. The hand fell away and he kept going. Then he rushed through the open door, seeing police and sensing the familiar buzz of an active crime scene all around him.

Breathing hard from exertion, he stopped dead when he saw Sara sitting there, a blanket wrapped haphazardly around her. She was pale and staring, eyes wide in her white face, like someone in shock. Peter caught sight of the bloodstains, and his heart stuttered in his chest.

He ran to her, bent down. "Sara! Thank God. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Peter. But—"

"You don't look fi—" he interrupted automatically, gesturing at the blood on her clothes, her hand.

"It's Neal's," she said grimly, her voice very small, the anguish audible.

It was the moment that, with all her heart, she had dreaded. And Peter Burke had been dreading it, too, ever since he heard that chilling announcement on the police scanner. _One dead, one wounded . . . ._

Peter took in a sharp, painful breath and felt his heart thudding against his ribs. Suddenly, the simple act of talking took an unexpected effort; he had to fight to push the words out. "Is he—"

"Black shot him. He—he was in bad shape, Peter; he lost a lot of blood. They just took him to the hospital, a few minutes ago."

He exhaled, the rush of relief making him lightheaded just for a second, in spite of how bleak she looked, of how bad he knew it must be. _He's alive. Thank you, God. __Neal's alive. Which means . . ._

"What about Black?"

She jerked her head to the side, indicating the other room. Through the doorway, amidst a crowd of crime scene techs, he could just see the black bag next to a prone, leather-jacketed body.

Peter looked back at her sharply, eyes wide with realization. "You shot him?"

She looked away, hesitated. "Yeah. But . . . I'm sorry, Peter. I—"

"Sorry? For shooting that bastard? You're gonna get honorary agent status for this, Sara." Through his fear for Neal, he still managed a smile for her.

"Excuse me, I'm Detective DeSalla."

Peter waved his badge and shook the hand DeSalla extended. "Burke, FBI. Afraid this is our scene. Dead guy's a hitter, an accomplice of a suspect we just arrested. My team—" he indicated Jones and Diana who had just entered, "is arriving now and can work with you on processing."

He returned his focus to Sara as DeSalla listened intently. "What happened?"

"But you need to go—Neal, he's . . . you have to go, you have to get to the hospital, Peter." She heard her voice rising, hating how panicked she sounded.

"I will," Peter said in that reassuring tone he had. "As soon as you tell me what happened. You can do that, right? Quickly? I know you can."

Sara closed her eyes for a second and took deep breaths. She could do this, she _could_.

She just needed a moment.

Even as she knew there was no time: Peter needed to get to the hospital, to be with Caffrey. Caffrey was all alone, and he shouldn't be. No one should die alone.

_God, please don't let him die._

_Enough with the melodrama, _she thought, annoyed with herself. _Snap out of it and tell Peter what he needs to know so he can go, for Christ's sake._

When she opened her eyes a second later, Peter was all she could see. He had dragged a chair over to sit directly in front of her. Worry lined his face. He must have seen something frightening in her eyes, because he gave her an encouraging smile before reaching over to take her hand. She noticed he did not take the one that was still red with Neal's blood.

"Neal drove me home. He said he wanted to do me a favor." She couldn't help the bitter laugh that escaped her at just how he'd been paid back for his good deed.

Peter didn't say anything, just tightened his grip on her hand. She focused on his face, on the warmth in his eyes, to counteract the chill that seemed to envelop her, freezing her throat and making it strangely hard to talk.

"We came in, put my things down. A moment later, we heard someone trying the door. Neal reached over, threw the deadbolt. Then bullets came flying through the door."

"H-he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the other room." She halted abruptly. "Except . . . Neal saved us both, first. He had the presence of mind to hand me my purse—thank God he did."

The reminder of Neal's customary cool under pressure brought a faint, knowing smile to Peter's face.

She took a deep breath. "The killer came in. He went to the other room first. Neal and I ran in there." With her left hand, she pointed and saw Peter glance at her hand, saw something change in his expression, his mouth tightening as he focused for an instant on the bloodstains on her skin. "We were on opposite sides of the doorway. I think he—he saw Neal. In the mirror. Then Neal said something, to draw his fire."

Peter exhaled harshly and shook his head at that. She could see a muscle working in his jaw, but otherwise he was perfectly still.

"Neal knew I was armed; he wanted—he was trying to distract Black. And it worked." She winced involuntarily; what an asinine thing to say. "Sort of." _Sure, Sara, it worked brilliantly. Neal got shot. Jesus._

She swallowed hard. "Black fired from out here and hit—hit the mirror. Then he came through the door. He turned left, aimed at Neal. He—"

Then she stopped. She had forgotten to breathe. She gasped for air. Or was she . . . crying?

_Goddamnit._

"I—I had my gun out by then, pointed at him. I told him to drop his weapon. But I was too slow. I waited too long and he fired and Neal tried to get away, but he was hit and he . . . he was falling and then, _then_ I fired but I was a split second too late and, oh _God_, Peter, if . . . if only—"

Her voice was shaking. Her throat had gone dry. She couldn't finish. She couldn't think of any more words to say and even if she could, her voice had deserted her.

Sara looked away, away from Peter and into the room where it had happened. She couldn't see the blood from here, but she didn't need to. It was on her hands—literally and figuratively. She had screwed up, and Neal might die because of it. And now the tears she'd been fighting ever since Neal had mentioned that damn painting were coming and she was powerless to stop them. She was crying, and she _hated_ weak, overemotional women who cried all the time, and now she was doing it.

Neal was going to die because of her, and Peter would never forgive her, which was completely understandable because she wasn't ever going to forgive herself.

And she wished, wished so _fucking _much that Black had turned right instead of left when he came through that doorway . . . .

Then suddenly Peter was there, right next to her so he could pull her in close, and she was leaning against him and crying, whispering between the sobs_, "I'm sorry, Peter. I'm so sorry" _over and over again. He held her and shushed her and told her not to be sorry, that it was okay, and let her get the worst of it out.

He gave her a minute to compose herself and, prepared as always, handed her a handkerchief to blot the tears. The warmth of his body helped to counteract the numbing cold that seemed to be on the verge of overwhelming her.

"Now you know why I apologized," she whispered into the white cloth. She rested her head in her hand, squeezing her eyes shut.

She could feel the motion of him shaking his head in a _no _gesture. "Hey, Sara. You need to listen to me now." He let go, leaning back a little to give her some room.

Blinking her eyes open, she stared listlessly at the floor. "Okay."

"No, no, no. Look at me." His voice was gentle, so gentle it nearly broke what was left of her heart. "Hey. Come on."

Giving her face one last swipe with the handkerchief, she lifted her head and dragged her eyes up to meet his. She couldn't even begin to describe the emotion she saw in Peter Burke's eyes in that moment, except that she felt stronger, somehow, just for seeing it.

"Sara. There are only two things that matter here. One, Neal is hurt because that bastard shot him. Two, the only reason Neal's alive is because of you."

When she didn't react, he said, with just a shade of his usual commanding tone, "You hear me?"

She nodded mutely.

"When you think about what happened here today, I want you to remember that: you saved his life. The rest is irrelevant."

"Except," he added, "that I do have to thank you and I owe you. _We _owe you." He shocked her then, by placing a very light kiss on her forehead before he released her hand and stood up.

"Look, I need . . . I have to get to the hospital. Jones and Diana are going to be here with you, okay? They'll take care of you."

She nodded her understanding. "Of course. You have to go. He's your—"

The word _felon_ flashed through her mind unbidden and she pushed it aside, ashamed. She considered _partner_ and finished, a little uncomfortably, with, "He's your responsibility."

Embarrassingly awkward, but it was a mark of just how distracted the ever-sharp Peter Burke was at that moment that he didn't even notice. Some of the blood from her hands and clothes had made red smears on his shirt, but he didn't notice that either. Clearly his mind was already elsewhere.

He strode quickly into the other room to survey the scene. She watched him, in profile through the doorway, turning to scan the body of the shooter with practiced eyes. She could tell the instant he registered the pool of blood where Neal had lain. His body stiffened and he stood motionless. Finally he ran a hand through his hair and spat out an epithet she couldn't quite catch.

DeSalla had been quietly watching him, too. When Peter remained where he was, for just a moment too long, the NYPD detective walked over to him.

"The man that was shot, Neal Caffrey, he's your agent?"

Peter was still staring at the blood on the floor. He swallowed visibly and it took a moment before he answered.

"Partner."

DeSalla nodded, expression softening fractionally. "I'm sorry, Agent Burke. I can tell you he's being cared for. We've got an officer with him at the hospital, but there's no word yet. Before you go check up on him, why don't you—" he put a hand on Peter's shoulder, gently drawing him away—"here, why don't you introduce me. Are these your agents?"

Somehow DeSalla seemed to sense that the FBI agent needed to be pulled away from the sight.

_Okay, she loved DeSalla a little bit, too. _

Jones and Diana were introduced. They looked as stricken as Peter did, she noted. The three of them conferred with the NYPD personnel briefly before she heard Peter say, "Are you guys okay finishing up here?"

Jones said, "Of course. We've got it covered, boss. Don't worry." Diana nodded and waved the cell phone she was holding. "I called the office; reinforcements are already on the way."

Uncharacteristically, Peter hesitated, looked around. "I—"

Diana took him by the arm and carefully turned him in the direction of the door. "We'll handle everything here. You'd better get down to the hospital before . . . before Caffrey escapes again." She held out the car keys, heedless of DeSalla's obvious surprise at her remark.

That brought the ghost of a grim smile to Peter's face, but he still didn't move, didn't take the keys. Jones and Diana exchanged a tense, knowing glance and said, in unison, "_GO._"

Then Jones, glancing quickly at Diana, said, "Tell you what, I could drive you—"

His words seemed to make an impression on Peter. He focused on them finally, lowering his voice. "No, no, you stay here, take care of things. But you're gonna need the car later, though. You have to—"

DeSalla interjected. "Agent Burke? Thought you were going to check on your partner. Could you use a ride?"

The FBI agent locked eyes with him, appreciating the gesture. "Yeah. I sure could, Detective. Thank you."

DeSalla waved a dismissive hand. "Least we can do." He turned. "Flynn!"

A red-haired, young female officer standing nearby rushed over, smartly. "Yes, sir."

"Officer Flynn, this here's Agent Burke. He's a Fibbie, but he's all right." DeSalla and Burke exchanged quick, humorless smiles. "He needs a ride to Kings County, as quick as we can make it."

"Right away, sir." They all knew the situation, had seen the blood. "Agent Burke, if you're ready to come with me . . ."

Peter glanced around at all of them. He started to say something, cleared his throat and started again. "Okay, everybody. Jones, Diana, call if you need me, if you need anything."

He paused and said, in a lower tone, "Take care of her, okay?" Then he looked at Sara. "Sara, we'll talk later."

"You're the one who needs to call us, Peter—as soon as you know _anything_," Diana said urgently.

He nodded.

"We'll be there as soon as we can," Jones added.

Sara got up, took Peter's hand and felt the tension in him, as if she were touching a coiled spring. Now she could see her own fear reflected in his eyes, and it scared her.

It was easy, when you spent time around someone like Peter, so calm, so unflappable, so comfortingly _in control_, to believe that veteran FBI agents were beyond feeling normal emotions like fear. Then you looked at his face—really _looked_—at a moment like this and saw that he was human, like anyone else, and scared, just like she was. Probably more, she reflected—after all, Caffrey meant a hell of a lot more to Peter. She'd seen the crazy, inexplicable bond they seemed to have—she didn't quite understand it, but she sure as hell couldn't deny it.

No, Peter Burke was scared, too. He just hid it a lot better. He wasn't a sobbing, inarticulate mess like she was. You had to touch his hand to feel the fear, or look deep into his eyes to see it, but it was there.

She held his gaze for a moment before she spoke. "Call when you hear anything about Neal. Please."

"I will," he promised.

Then, suddenly, he was gone.

_TBC . . . ._

_Thanks to all reviewers—there's nothing like feedback! Got a bit behind and haven't responded to reviews lately, so my apologies. More coming soon._


	5. The Smallest Act of Caring

Not a Fan of the Bittersweet

**Chapter 5**

**The Smallest Act of Caring**

"_Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring . . . ."  
_―Leo Buscaglia

* * *

Officer Megan Flynn led the FBI agent to a patrol car parked at the end of the block. She was secretly glad to have something to do besides stand around at the scene. And, having furtively observed Burke for the last few minutes, she couldn't help also being relieved that he wasn't driving to the hospital himself.

An early arrival on site, Megan had been stationed just inside the door, so she'd been a silent witness to everything. She'd sympathetically watched Sara Ellis, who, Megan gathered, had been the intended target of the shooter, sit there, shaking and in shock. The woman had just taken one life and then frantically tried to save another; anyone could see she was fighting just to hold it together.

Then she'd watched as Burke came into the room a few minutes later. Megan hadn't needed to see his ID to know he was FBI—he looked too much like a fed to be anything else—or to know that he was personally connected to this shooting.

The way he'd run through the doorway, breathing hard—and the desperate look on his face—said it all.

She'd watched him focus on Sara Ellis, immediately realizing that the woman needed help. Megan had observed, quietly impressed, as the FBI agent set aside his own emotions about the other victim to give Sara Ellis the strength she needed, the shoulder she needed to cry on, just for a minute.

Then she'd watched Burke step into the other room. Watched him react to what he saw there. Watched the reality of what had happened hit him as if he'd received a physical blow.

Even before DeSalla had offered a ride, she'd been studying Burke nervously and thinking, _Jesus. Look at him, people. The last thing he should be doing right now is driving. Someone needs to go with him, for Christ's sake. _

The man was distracted and on edge, and anyone in that state, FBI agent or no, really shouldn't be behind the wheel of a car. Fortunately, DeSalla had seen it too. (All in all, the detective turned out to be a bit more perceptive than Megan would have given him credit for.) He'd not only dragged Peter Burke away from the gruesome sight of all that blood, but he'd also made sure the agent got a ride to the hospital, calling on Megan to perform the task.

Burke was moving fast, and she had to jog quickly to keep pace, trying to help cut through the crush of police, evidence techs, EMTs, and medical examiner staff—not to mention the curious, voyeuristic onlookers who always congregated at scenes like this. As they walked, the agent's phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the display; whatever he saw there pushed his expression from tense to annoyed.

"Burke."

He nodded impatiently as he listened. "Yeah. I know. I just learned that Caffrey was rushed to the hospital with a gunshot wound; they must have removed it. I'm on my way to the ER now. I'll be in touch after I get there."

He looked angry at whatever they said next; she could see it—and hear the undercurrent in his voice when he replied. _Actually, not an undercurrent,_ she realized—no, it was right there on the surface for anyone to hear, including, most especially, the unfortunate person on the other end.

"You must have missed the part when I said _he's been shot and in no condition to go anywhere_," Burke said, biting off each word. The ice in his voice could have frozen the phone line. "Save your goddamn manpower. I'll take full responsibility. I will contact you when I need you."

As she slid behind the wheel of the cruiser, he hung up. It kind of sounded as if the person on the other end hadn't finished talking, but Burke most definitely had.

That conversation emphatically finished, he climbed in the front seat and she backed up efficiently to get them away from the crowd. Once away, she turned on the lights.

"Thank you, Officer," he said, sounding very calm, very in control. His anger of a moment ago was gone. Or maybe it was just hidden; she didn't know him well enough to tell.

"Don't mention it." She paused and then said, "The man who was shot, he's your agent? Partner?"

He nodded, not bothering to specify.

She reached over to the radio. "My partner, Officer Carlson, accompanied your agent to the hospital. I'm going to see what he knows."

"I'd appreciate that."

She radioed Carlson. "Jimmy, it's Megan."

It took a moment, and then the radio buzzed. "Copy you, Meg."

"I've got Special Agent Burke from the FBI with me, we're on our way to you. Agent Caffrey's his partner—how's he doing?"

Even in the midst of the numbing dread that threatened to overwhelm him, Peter couldn't help but think how amused Neal would be—under other circumstances—to hear himself described as _Agent Caffrey_. He'd get that expression of pure, childlike delight he always had when something unexpectedly wonderful happened. In his mind's eye, Peter could picture that look so easily; he'd seen it often enough on his consultant's face since they'd started working together. Like when Neal had learned he'd been copycatted . . . .

_. . . I'm not allowed to revel?_

Through the static, Carlson's voice broke up, then came back. You could hear his sigh over the radio. "We're at the ER. He arrested on the way here." Megan felt a lump in her throat. She saw Burke's hand, lying loose on his thigh, clench into a fist, then watched it relax as Carlson quickly added, "EMTs got him going again right away. He's being checked out now, but I don't know anything yet."

"Thanks, Jimmy. We'll be there soon."

Burke leaned over. "Thank you, Officer Carlson. I appreciate your staying with my partner."

"No problem, Agent Burke. They get a lot of trauma cases here, so the docs are real good. I'll see you in the ER. If I hear anything, I'll let you know."

"Thanks."

She drove expertly through traffic, pushing it as much as she dared. Occasionally she'd sneak a glance at Burke. He was staring out the window, but with the haunted look of someone who wasn't really registering what was right in front of him.

Megan was a compassionate soul—_too soft, if you asked Jimmy_—and her heart went out to Burke. She didn't need to know the man to be able to sense what he was feeling in this moment of crisis. She could imagine it all too well, and the realization made her blood run cold.

Glancing over at him again, she felt a prickle of unease and decided to engage her passenger. Her urge to try, somehow, to help was instinctive. Maybe she could divert him from whatever dark thoughts he was having.

"So, uh, Jimmy said your partner was wearing some kind of electronic monitoring device." She said it in a neutral, even friendly tone—more curious than anything.

That diverted Burke's attention, all right. He turned not just his head, but his whole body to glare at her.

Instantly she regretted it. _Well, that really helped. Way to go, Meg. _ "I'm sorry, Agent Burke. It's none of my business."

He sighed. Of course word had traveled fast about Neal; in his experience, cops were the biggest gossips in the world, anyway. The last thing he felt like doing was explaining Neal's situation to another judgmental law enforcement type or someone else—like Sara—who would never accept it no matter what you told them.

But Flynn was doing him a favor—had just done him a big one, in fact. So he answered with a patience he did not feel.

"It's okay. Neal is serving out his sentence as a civilian consultant. He's assigned to our division as a condition of his work release." He wasn't going to detail Neal's criminal record to her. "The tracker is part of the deal."

_So he's a criminal __**and **__his partner._

"You work out of Organized Crime?"

He shook his head. "No, White Collar."

That surprised her; no one at the scene had said anything about that. "Jesus. I thought White Collar was a lot of accounting fraud, mortgage cases, stuff like that. He was working a case, though, right? And the shooter was a contractor?"

"Yes. We see less action than some, but more than most people think." He stopped abruptly; his mind had no doubt circled back to his partner, who had seen the most serious kind of action there was.

As she was trying to think of something else, something distracting, to say, his phone rang. She turned down the volume on the radio. Burke reached into his pocket, checked the display, and grimaced.

"Hi, hon."

Megan Flynn was a single girl; her check of a man's left hand was automatic and Burke had been no exception. _Probably his wife._

She could hear the female voice on the other end—words indistinct, but the sound clear enough. She didn't want to eavesdrop, but it wasn't like there was anything else for her to hear.

He was silent and tense, yet waiting politely for his wife to stop rather than interrupting. Even under stress, he still had manners. A small thing, but one that Megan appreciated.

"Yeah, I know we talked about an early dinner before your event, but that's off now. El, I have some bad news."

When he hesitated, the wife jumped in. Her voice rose, the note of panic clearly audible.

He cut her off quickly. "No, no, I'm fine. It's Neal. He's . . . he's been shot."

Surprisingly, the wife's voice rose even higher. Megan noted Burke's automatic use of the familiar and was intrigued. He didn't say, _One of my agents_ was shot. Or _Agent Caffrey_. Or _my—_what had he called him?_—consultant. _Just _Neal_.

"I don't know anything yet. But he—I—I've heard . . . it's not good, El. I'm on my way to the hospital now." Well, that was partially true. She noticed he left out the bit about Caffrey's heart stopping. No doubt trying to keep her from worrying too much, which was kind of touching—and probably not something he'd do unless the two of them were close.

"No. I wasn't there." he was saying, disgust bubbling over in his voice. "Sara was with him." A humorless smile followed, and a small note of satisfaction crept into his tone. "She shot the bastard—killed him."

Pause and then a grim chuckle. "No, she wasn't aiming at Neal this time."

_What the . . . _Megan had to manufacture a cough to cover the fact that she'd been about to blurt out her reaction. She kept her eyes carefully fixed on the road, pretending she wasn't listening, (though, of course, it was impossible not to).

"Sara wasn't hurt. She saved Neal's life." He heaved a sigh. "She was really shaken up, El. And worried . . . worried sick about Neal."

At that, Megan sneaked a glance at Burke. He was worried, too; beyond worried, really. It was written in every line on his face.

The wife said something else. Burke shook his head as if the wife could see him.

"No, no, El, it's okay. You don't have to. I promise I'll call as soon as I know anything."

The wife's voice got louder. Before she'd been panicked. Now, she just sounded pissed.

"You're working," he protested, but it was half-hearted. Spoken like a man who knew his beloved was going to do whatever she wanted to do in the end, anyway.

The wife's voice came through loud and clear. Burke exhaled slowly and looked heavenward. Finally, he stopped talking and just started listening. He stopped shaking his head and started nodding instead.

_Smart man._

He rubbed his forehead and let his hand drop in a gesture of futility. "Okay. It's—" he sighed and turned to Flynn. His tone was resigned. "What hospital was it again?"

She told him and he dutifully repeated it into the phone. "Kings County."

Flynn heard the wife's voice rise in a question.

"No, I didn't call June. I don't _know_ anything yet." Frustration laced his words.

He listened again.

"No. You're right, she should know. And I'm just sitting here. I can—I can call her," he said, a bit helplessly.

Pause.

"No, not yet," he said, sighing again. "Yeah, I have to call him."

The wife said something else.

"No," Burke said. "I'll do it. It's—I should do it." He looked out the window and listened some more.

"Okay. I'll see you—"

The wife cut him off sharply. He nodded again, obediently.

"Right. I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

Burke listened again and then spoke. "Yeah. Love you too."

He disconnected. Flynn had to force away the little smile that had crept unbidden to her face. Ah, marriage.

_So the FBI agent's wife is dropping everything so she can personally join a bedside ER vigil for her husband's partner slash consultant—who also happens to be a convicted felon._

Fascinating.

She was still mulling that over. When she glanced once again at Burke, he was watching her intently. From the glint in his eye, she had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what she'd been thinking.

This time he was the one to break the silence. "My wife."

She managed an awkward smile.

"But you probably already figured that out," Burke remarked.

"Uh, yeah." She nodded and could feel herself blushing. _Stupid Irish coloring._

He started to say something and stopped.

"Agent Burke, it's none of my business." _You're repeating yourself, Meg. _"You don't owe me any explanations."

"I know. But I could see you thinking."

That made her laugh, for real, and Burke actually almost smiled (well, for a second, anyway). Even though she was embarrassed at being so transparent, Megan figured it was worth it—if it got Burke's mind off his partner's dire situation, even for a moment. "Sorry, sir."

"It's . . . an unusual situation."

"Certainly sounds like it," she agreed.

"And Neal is a unique person," he continued.

"Oh, I don't doubt it."

"Neal is . . . the smartest guy I've ever met. And has a lot of varied talents. Unfortunately for me, not to mention the worldwide law enforcement community, he ended up on the wrong side."

Burke looked away from her then, staring out the window.

"He has so much potential. He just needs to realize it." He sounded almost wistful. Flynn wondered if he was saying this for her benefit—or his own. "So we're . . . we're working on that. Trying to make him see . . ."

_We. Was that the "royal" we? Or did "we" mean him and the rest of the FBI? Or Burke and his wife?_

The possibilities were truly endless.

He seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he snapped back to reality with disconcerting suddenness, not finishing the thought but moving back to practical matters.

"Did you see him after—after he was hit?" His tone was pure business once again as he turned his focus back to her, watching her drive.

"Only for a minute. They were taking him out."

"Where was he hit?"

"Lower abdomen. Right side."

Burke nodded absently. She could see him thinking about the damage a bullet in that area of the body could do. Of course, the quantity of blood on the floor had told its own story.

Finally he spoke. "He wasn't conscious." It wasn't a question.

"No, sir. He wasn't."

Burke's lips were pressed together and he turned his head away from her, staring out at the traffic. She could feel the anxiety coming off him in waves.

Megan's mind raced. She cast about for something to keep him talking. Then she reconsidered: if she were in his position, would she really want that? Or would she rather be left alone? She knew one thing she wouldn't want: trite platitudes like, _Don't worry_ or _He'll be okay._ Things they both knew were pointless and quite possibly false.

The problem was, she couldn't think of anything else to say.

Finally she came up with the best she could manage as comfort without being patronizing: "He's got a fighting chance. Thanks to your friend."

"Sara? Yeah, she shot the bastard."

"Well, there's that. But she stayed right there with him, kept pressure on the wound. He probably would've bled out at the scene if not for her."

He nodded thoughtfully, took that in. Then he said in a low voice, almost to himself, "And to think, the other day, she almost put a bullet in him herself."

Megan looked at him in surprise, thinking she'd heard wrong, but then remembered the comment he'd made to his wife—something about _not aiming at Neal this time_?

Seeing her surprise, Burke waved a dismissive hand. "Long story. Case of mistaken identity. She, uh . . . she thought Neal had broken into her apartment and was trying to kill her."

Flynn shook her head in wonderment. "You must have one heck of an interesting case load, Agent Burke."

That made him smile, briefly, and she felt like she'd won another small victory. "With Neal around, it's rarely dull," he admitted.

A long pause ensued, as if Burke was weighing his words with care. Finally he said, "Ms. Ellis—Sara—is an insurance investigator. We were working a case together, but she believes Neal stole a painting she's been trying to recover for some time."

"Did he steal it?" Jesus Christ, the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. There was something so honest, so straightforward, so damn _genuine_ about Burke it made her drop her guard. And of course, her mother had always warned her she still needed to work on the whole "put your brain in gear before opening your mouth" thing.

_Do you have it?_

She couldn't have known that the agent was hearing his own words to Neal echo in his mind from a few days earlier. She knew only that he was silent for a moment and then threw a quizzical look her way.

He considered copying Neal's response to the question and saying nothing. Then, thinking better of it, he said, casually, "Anything's possible. With Neal."

She let out a low whistle. "So he's . . . an art thief?"

Burke waved a finger in the air. "No. Well, yes. I mean, probably. But . . . he was never convicted of that. Though," he added quickly, "not for lack of trying on my part. The only thing I ever nailed him on was bond forgery." The implication of other, unproven crimes hung thick in the air, but the agent didn't sound perturbed by it, or disappointed like you'd expect. Just oddly matter-of-fact.

She was still considering that—and making a mental note to Google _Neal Caffrey _the very next chance she got—when his phone rang again.

Burke glanced at the display, sighed and straightened up a bit in the passenger seat.

"Yes, sir. You talked to Jones?"

_Boss_.

"I would have called you, but I don't know anything yet. I'm on my way to the hospital now. He was shot in the lower right side. The NYPD officer who's with him said Neal went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance, but they were able to revive him right away. He's still being assessed in the ER."

He listened, nodded. "No, they've been great. I don't need anything right now."

The person on the other end spoke as Burke listened.

"Just me. Jones and Diana are handling the cleanup at the scene."

Pause.

"Kings County."

After more listening, Burke said, "Right. Okay. Yeah, as soon as I know something. Thanks, Reese."

Burke ended the call and then stared at the phone in his hand as if expecting to see something there. Finally he speed-dialed a number.

"Hello, this is Agent Burke. Is June there?"

It was mostly a replay of the conversation he'd had with his wife. Lots of anxiety on the other end, enough that Megan figured June must be the girlfriend. Again Burke was deliberately vague about Caffrey's injuries; again he promised to call with news; again he relayed the name of the hospital before hanging up. No doubt the girlfriend was going to meet them there as well.

"Does your partner have any family?" Megan inquired. The more she kept him talking, the better it would be, she'd decided. Right now, thinking was probably the worst thing Burke could be doing.

"No, not really. At least, not that I know of."

_Not that he knows of. Interesting. _She nodded at the phone. "Girlfriend, huh?"

He laughed, but there was no real humor in it. "No, June is Neal's . . . landlady. He rents an apartment from her."

Another surprise. Megan tried to conceive of a universe where she got injured on the job and someone notified her landlady within a half an hour. And where her landlady was worried enough to hightail it down to the hospital to sit by her bedside.

_Nope, couldn't imagine that one. She wouldn't care until the rent check was late._

_Caffrey must be quite the character.  
_

Burke was still holding the phone in front of him, still staring at it, now with a look of near-apprehension on his face.

"This call won't be fun." The words were said almost to himself.

Finally he hit another speed-dial number. Did he have Caffrey's entire circle on speed-dial?

_Apparently, yes._

This time, there was no answer. He waited and then spoke, "Mozzie, it's me." He stopped and started again. "It's Agent Burke. I'm afraid I have some bad news. Neal's been shot in the abdomen and he's been taken to Kings County Hospital. I'm on my way there now. I haven't seen him yet, but he's . . . he's not in good shape. I knew you needed to know. I—I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

Burke clicked off and glanced over at her again. Apparently he now felt compelled to update her. "Friend of Neal's. He doesn't . . . approve of Neal's working with the feds in general, or me in particular."

"Well, anyone would be worried," Megan said blandly.

Burke scoffed. "Worried, sure. But this guy takes paranoia to new levels. My letting Neal get shot is going to confirm every dark conspiracy theory he's ever dreamed up." He paused for a moment before adding, "Not to mention, it's really going to piss him off."

Lots of grim humor in his last sentence, but what really caught her attention was his earlier wording. _My letting Neal get shot._ It struck Megan as an odd thing to say—Burke hadn't even been there when it happened.

Or maybe that was the point, she realized belatedly.

_He wasn't there._

* * *

A few minutes later, they finally reached the hospital. As she was slowing the car, Burke already had the door open before the cruiser had stopped.

"I'll park and meet you inside," she yelled at his back as he was running toward the ER doors. Burke didn't look back or answer. She radioed Jimmy to let him know they'd arrived.

Naturally, no ER spots were open. In the small parking area, there was literally nowhere to leave the car where it wouldn't be double-parked and blocking someone in. She saw a space down the block and sped toward it. It turned out to be a loading zone, but one perk of being a cop: no parking enforcement officer would ticket a patrol car. She parallel-parked expertly and jumped out to follow Burke.

_TBC…._

_Thank you for reading, as always. Just playing with POV in this chapter a bit. If you've got a moment to leave a comment, you'll make me very happy—and I will respond! More coming soon…._

_Finally, a couple of shout-outs to guest reviewers (if you consider this self-indulgent, feel free to skip):_

To ansel—thank you for your many reviews. A lot of people without FF accounts read and never review (that was me at one time [hanging head in shame]), but you are not one of those and I thank you for it!

To Jesse: Here's my initial reaction to your review—remember 'The Dentist of Detroit,' when Peter and Neal were having their faux argument, and Neal said in that aggrieved incredulous voice, "_You love my hats!" _Now picture me saying, in the exact same voice, "_But I love Peter!"_

No, seriously, thank you for your spirited defense of Peter. While I would consider myself probably one of the last people he needs defending from, I still appreciate that your review was thought-out and heart-felt. Given your comment about my lack of honesty, I guess you won't believe this, but I'll say it anyway: I agree with a great deal of what you said. (Well, except for the parts about my dishonesty, my cynicism, and my only pretending to like Peter. ;-) And I certainly never intended to be "insulting to the Peter fans.")

You said I was harsh with Peter. Except, Ch 4 was supposed to be _Peter _being harsh with Peter. I apologize if I wasn't quite clear enough about that. I would gently caution anyone against assuming that the internal monologue of a guilt-ridden character in the midst of a dire emotional crisis represents, in actuality, the opinion of the author. Also—I would NEVER try to dissuade a reader from reviewing along the way (because if every reader reviewed every chapter, that would qualify as Author Nirvana to me!), but . . . it probably shortchanges the reader and the reading experience to render what comes across as a rather final judgment on an author's treatment of a theme or a character when (gulp) less than 20% of this story has been posted (yikes, that number is scary but most definitely true).

There are a million and one _Neal gets shot/suffers some terrible trauma _stories out there. And I love them. But the only reason I'm writing this one is not because I enjoy hurting Neal, but b/c I want to examine how such an event would affect the characters we know and love.

Guilt, responsibility, consent, and the question of what rules do and should apply to how Peter/the FBI use Neal—these themes, IMO, are:

1 - Thought-provoking – your review and many others are proof of this, if nothing else. It was the most commented-on aspect of the chapter, I think.

2 - Complex, worthy of exploration, and important for the character. This is where my vision of Peter comes into play. I see Peter as so deeply moral, so incredibly conscientious, that I don't think it would do him justice, in the wake of something this serious, if he _didn't_ have some doubts, some qualms about how Neal is employed. Now, granted, this chapter portrays a more angsty Peter than we've ever seen on the show—to that, I will plead guilty. ;-) But then again, on the show, we've never watched Peter react to seeing a pint or more of Neal's blood decorating the floor. If we did ever see something like that, I think Peter would react pretty strongly, especially initially. And I do think part of that might involve Peter beating himself up a bit. YMMV, of course that's a given.

(Also, some of these themes will be explored with other characters besides Peter.)

Finally, thanks for one other aspect of your review—the reminder that readers view stories from their own unique perspectives. I tend to forget that fandoms often break into subgroups, such as those you mentioned (Neal fans, Peter fans). I consider myself a fan of both pretty equally – two wonderful characters, with amazing qualities and some flaws, too. But each reader's reaction to a story is filtered through their own personal prism and which character you favor can really affect how you perceive a story. That's something I don't always think about and probably should consider more when I write in the future.


	6. Never Strong Enough

**Not a Fan of the Bittersweet**

**Chapter 6**

**Never Strong Enough**

"You are never strong enough that you don't need help."  
― César Chávez

* * *

It had been a hectic day at Burke Premier Events—running down last-minute details for the night's reception at the Hardison Gallery, finalizing a bid for an upcoming MS fundraiser, reassuring Tricia DeHavilland, possibly the most nervous and needy bride Elizabeth had ever dealt with, that, yes, without question, her centerpieces were going to be among the most stunning ones any New York wedding guest had ever seen. _And considering the price, they damn well better be_, Elizabeth thought with a sigh.

So, yes, a busy day, but the kind Elizabeth loved, frankly. As her business had grown, she'd realized how much she preferred working on multiple projects at once, juggling and prioritizing. She liked knowing that something was always ongoing, that even as one event finished, there was no letdown because the next big job was already on the horizon.

In the midst of the craziness, she'd set aside a few minutes to call Peter and finalize their own plans. She'd only gotten back into town that morning, having taken a cab from the airport straight to the office. She hadn't even seen him yet.

When they'd spoken last night, Peter had mentioned that he anticipated making an arrest the next day—_nothing exciting,_ he'd assured her, which was his typical, low-key way of telling her not to worry. Yvonne was running point on the Hardison event, but Elizabeth had decided to stay in town to help, thinking an extra person on-site couldn't hurt. So she and Peter had agreed to meet for a quick, early dinner beforehand, but they hadn't set a time or place. _And a reservation might be a good idea . . ._

She didn't think anything of it when Peter's phone rang twice and went to voicemail. Peter, devoted husband that he was, was conscientious about answering her calls during the workday—calls she tried to keep to a minimum—but it wasn't always possible for him, of course. He was at work and in the middle of something—nothing unusual there. She left him a bare-bones message and returned to Yvonne to double-check the latest printout of the night's guest list against the seating arrangement.

A half hour later, the seating arrangements were finalized and Peter hadn't returned her call. She thought about texting him, but something made her try his number again. She hadn't seen her husband in almost a week. Elizabeth just wanted to hear his voice—and yes, make a dinner reservation—and felt a rush of happiness when he picked up this time.

"Hi, hon." His voice sounded just slightly off, but she didn't stop to wonder why, just rushed on. Later, when Elizabeth thought about the conversation and all that followed on that day, she realized that she should have known immediately that something terrible had happened. She should have recognized Peter's distress right away. Peter's voice was expressive, and years of marriage had taught her to be sensitive to every nuance. He had trouble hiding his emotions from her—when he even tried, which wasn't often.

But at the time, in that moment, she only thought about the fact that she was busy and so was Peter, no doubt. He was distracted. For heaven's sake, he'd told her he was arresting someone today. The faster she talked, the sooner he could get back to catching the bad guy—or whatever else he'd been in the middle of when she'd interrupted him.

"Hi, hon. So sorry to bug you; don't know if you got my message. I promise I'll keep this brief, but I just wanted to talk real quick about tonight." As she spoke, she picked up the list of items for the guests' gift bags and walked it over to Yvonne's desk.

"Yeah, I know we talked about an early dinner before your event, but that's off now." His sigh was audible, and the pause before he resumed was just a little too long. "El, I have some bad news."

The glow of happiness she'd felt upon hearing his voice faded instantly, as if it had never been. There was no mistaking the low, rough timbre of his voice now—it reminded her of the time Peter had called to tell her about his sister's car accident.

And what frightened her most was his choice of words. Her husband wasn't one for melodrama. Or hyperbole. He was prosaic and understated. His "_bad_" was probably most people's "devastating" or "terrible." Her grip on the phone tightened unconsciously as a frisson of fear run through her.

"Peter, are you all right? What happened?" She heard the panicked tone of her own voice, remembered his reassuring tone from the night before when he talked about the arrest he was going to make. _Nothing exciting_, he'd said.

He'd _promised, damn it. _Or had that just been a platitude designed to comfort her?

His tone now was anything but comforting; his next words shook her.

"No, no, I'm fine. It's Neal. He's . . . he's been shot."

_Oh, no. Not Neal. _She felt her heart leap into her throat, heard herself gasp. The world faded away somehow as Peter's words echoed in her ears. The whir of the printer, the sound of Yvonne saying her name, the trill of the office phone—all the surrounding noise died away, though she wasn't really aware of that until later.

She froze where she was, a few feet away from Yvonne's desk, seeing the look of concern on her face. "Oh, my God. Is he all right?"

The question was automatic, even though she already knew the answer from the tone of Peter's voice.

"I don't know anything yet. But he—I—I've heard . . ." he paused and there was something in his voice, almost a quaver, that sent a chill down her spine. It sounded horribly wrong; it was so . . . _not Peter. _ "It's—he's not good, El. I'm on my way to the hospital now."

"You—you weren't with him?"

_But you're always with him. _The words were on the tip of her tongue; thank God she didn't say them.

Emotions coursed through her, lighting-fast: automatic relief that Peter had been far removed from danger, quickly followed by shame at her own selfishness. But both were overwhelmed by terror for Neal—charming, nonviolent Neal, who hated guns and who somehow had been shot _when Peter wasn't there to protect him._

She knew Peter considered that a key, if unspoken, portion of his job description. He watched out for Neal. Always.

_And this time, when Neal had needed him most . . . ._

"No. I wasn't there." Elizabeth marked the note of guilt in his voice and in the midst of her fear had the fleeting thought that she'd have to address that later. "Sara was with him." His disgust turned into something like satisfaction as he added, "She shot the bastard—killed him."

"Oh, thank God," she said. The bizarre irony of it struck her and she said, a little blankly, without thinking, "She—she was going to shoot Neal the other day."

Peter let out a bitter little laugh; there was no humor in the sound. "No, she wasn't aiming at Neal this time."

"Is she—is she okay?"

"Sara wasn't hurt. She saved Neal's life." He sighed. "She was really shaken up, El. And worried . . . worried sick about Neal."

His tone plainly said, _So am I._

Elizabeth started moving again, recovering enough to turn and walk back to her desk. It was obvious what she needed to do; she had to stop standing around and start doing it. Opening the bottom drawer, she reached for her handbag. "Honey, I'm coming over there."

"No, no, El, it's okay. You don't have to. I promise I'll call as soon as I know anything."

Elizabeth felt herself flushing, welcoming the little flash of anger that pushed out the fear, if only for a moment. She loved that Peter was protective and selfless. But at times like this, when he took it too far, she wanted to shake him.

"Of course I have to come. This is Neal, honey. You think I'm just going to sit around waiting for a phone call?"

"You're working," Peter said, but he was already hesitating. Not that it mattered; his protests were immaterial to her at this point.

"Actually, _Yvonne_ is in charge of the event tonight, and Rory will be there to help, too," Elizabeth said, her eyes meeting Yvonne's with a questioning look. Yvonne nodded quickly, twice, and made a _we'll be fine, just go_ gesture as she watched Elizabeth with alarm.

"She doesn't need me there," Elizabeth said firmly. "She'll be just fine. But if you're going to be at the hospital, so am I. Now, where are they taking him?"

She heard Peter asking someone for the name of the hospital, which he repeated for her benefit. She wondered, then, who was with him and silently thanked God that her husband wasn't alone. She also hoped he wasn't driving; she doubted that he was, because he usually used the speakerphone in that case.

Just then, a thought struck her. "Peter, did you call June?"

"No, I didn't call June. I don't _know_ anything yet." His frustration was palpable.

"Sweetie, I know, but someone should tell her. Do you have time to just give her a quick call now? Or—are you too busy? If you are, I'd be happy to do it."

"No. You're right, she should know. And I'm just sitting here. I can—I can call her," he said, after a pause.

_Good, _she thought, relieved. _He's not driving. _A small thing, but somehow it gave her a tiny measure of comfort.

"Thanks, hon. I know she'll appreciate it." She hesitated and then said, "Does—does Mozzie know?"

"No, not yet," he said, and her heart twisted at how exhausted he sounded, suddenly. "Yeah, I have to call him."

"I can do it," she replied quickly. It was one thing she could do to help—and maybe Mozzie would take the news better if it came from her.

"No," he said. "I'll do it. It's—I should do it."

"Okay," she said, knowing that would be a difficult call to make, worrying already about how Mozzie would react. And loving Peter for that innate sense of duty that compelled _him _to be the one to make those phone calls.

"Okay. I'll see you—" Peter started.

"You will, but before that, you'll be calling me—when you have _any_ news," she told him, mock-sternly.

"Right," he sighed. "I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

"That's what I want to hear," she told him. "Honey, I love you and I'll see you soon."

"Yeah. Love you too," Peter said, voice unusually emotional for him.

He hung up and, a moment later, she disconnected too.

Only then did she realize that she hadn't told him that Neal would be all right.

* * *

Peter had departed in a rush, with the red-haired cop leading the way to drive him to the hospital. _Doing the job that, by rights, he or Diana, as members of Peter's team, should have been doing, _Jones thought bitterly. Except that Peter hadn't given them any choice. He'd insisted Jones and Diana stay and work the scene.

From an operational standpoint, of course, Peter was right. It was the right call.

From an emotional standpoint, though, it was all wrong. Wrong in every way.

Jones was still reeling inwardly from the shock of it. _One minute, we're taking down Halbridge, patting ourselves on the back; the next minute, we find out Neal's been shot and Peter's out there on his own, waiting to find out if Caffrey's alive or dead._

In an instant, everything had changed.

Jones just hoped it hadn't changed _forever_. Because if Neal Caffrey died, he knew that nothing in their world would ever be the same.

_Peter _would never be the same.

Jones didn't want to think about that.

Diana was talking to Sara and the NYPD detective. Jones walked for the first time into the room where Black's body still lay; the techs were finishing the measurements and photography, preparing to move the corpse. As he looked beyond, he saw the ugly, dark stain, standing out starkly on the polished hardwood. He stood there for a long moment, just staring.

_Christ. _

Suddenly he flashed back to the other day, in the van, after they'd sent Neal to meet with Halbridge. Neal, after lifting the driver's weapon with his usual ease, had handed it to Peter and suggested that he could plant a bug just as easily.

To say Peter was not on board with that plan would be putting it mildly. The agent had turned so Neal could see how deeply he was frowning, and when he spoke, Peter's tone left no room for debate. _You're playing with guns, _Peter had retorted. _I'm not letting you back in there._

Neal was always unarmed, so, naturally, Peter didn't want him near targets who were carrying, if he could help it. This time, the danger was obvious, and, of course, Peter had recognized it.

And it hadn't mattered one goddamned bit.

Jones spun around, suddenly needing to find Diana, but she was right behind him. Her gaze, too, was fixed on the bloodstain. When she finally looked at him, he said, "You called the office, right?"

Diana nodded. "Backup's on the way."

"Who's with Peter?"

She stared at him, dark eyes luminous with worry. "I—I didn't really ask for that specifically . . . ."

"_We need to_," Jones said, and the urgency in his voice was as close to panic as she'd ever heard from him.

Involuntarily, her gaze flicked down to the blood on the floor, then back up to his face. "Yeah," she said, conscious of just the slightest unsteadiness in the word. "Yeah, you're right, we're going to be stuck here a while. I'll—"

Jones shook his head. "It's okay." He took out his phone. "Already got someone in mind."

Diana threw him a quizzical look.

He tried the name on her. Her brows drew together as she thought for a moment; then her face cleared. "Yeah," she said. "That's—that'll be good."

Not waiting for her to finish, Jones was already dialing.

"Peter won't like it, you know," she pointed out.

"Like I give a shit," Jones snorted.

* * *

In the backseat of the cab, Elizabeth closed her eyes and thought about Neal, about how quickly he'd become part of their lives.

It was strange—Peter and Neal hadn't been working together that long, but their partnership had become routine, second-nature to both of them. Despite the ever-present trust issues on both sides, Peter and Neal had bonded quickly—more quickly, in fact, than Elizabeth could remember with any of the agents Peter had partnered with over the years.

There was something unique in the way Peter and Neal challenged and brought the best out in each other, even as they constantly sized each other up. Peter was very good at his job, but Neal brought aspects that made him even better. He was Peter's intellectual equal—those were Peter's words—and he engaged Peter in ways that no criminal—and precious few agents—ever had. Neal forced Peter to think in unorthodox ways and kept him on his toes. For two people who'd been on opposite sides for so long, they fit together unbelievably well.

And Neal fit with the rest of the team, too. Peter had worried quite a bit about how Neal would impact the chemistry among the other agents in White Collar; in fact, it was one of the things he'd struggled with the most before agreeing to the work-release. "Anyone new changes the dynamic, and not always for the better," Peter had fretted. "How the hell is a felon going to fit in?" He'd envisioned himself, perhaps, refereeing endless disputes between a recalcitrant Neal and a roomful of hostile FBI agents.

As it turned out, he needn't have worried. Due, she was sure, to a combination of Peter's leadership and Neal's stellar ability to ingratiate himself with seemingly everyone he met, Neal had blended seamlessly with the team from the beginning. Peter treated Neal with respect and Peter's agents followed his lead. The bumps in the road, when they occurred, tended to be with agents from other divisions who harbored suspicions about the arrangement and didn't work with Neal on a day-to-day basis. They were stereotypical FBI agents who lacked Peter's open-mindedness, who had a mental picture of what a criminal was and couldn't easily alter that perception.

Practically speaking, the biggest opponent to the arrangement had been Peter's boss, Reese Hughes, and, while he was still not exactly a fan of Neal's, Hughes had eventually been won over by the undeniable results of Neal's participation. Peter's clearance rate had always been good, but with Neal, it shot up to ridiculously good.

Beyond her consuming fear for Neal, she worried about Peter too, about what this would do to him. Peter's voice had told her all she needed to know about the seriousness of Neal's condition. It was bad enough that Neal had been shot. But, for Peter's mental state, it would make it a hundred times worse that he hadn't been there. She knew Peter, and she knew that he would obsess—quietly—over what he could have done, how things might have been different if only he'd been there.

Peter had grown uneasy over the past few months about the dangers Neal faced in his consulting role. He had envisioned Neal's CI role in the traditional way, as someone who provided valuable intelligence and background about specific techniques, sometimes the names of contacts who could assist in investigations, perhaps making introductions to those contacts. He had seen Neal as a resource who might lack extensive formal education but who more than made up for it with street smarts. In truth, he'd probably underestimated a bit just how intelligent Neal was. Peter, never lacking confidence in his own abilities, knew that anyone who could stay a step ahead of him as long as Neal had done had to be smart. But he'd admitted to El that he hadn't really expected Neal to be as well-read as he was, as knowledgeable about a wide variety of subjects that went far behind the expected criminal enterprises.

The idea of Neal at the office, working on files, lending his expertise without really being hands-on in the field, had probably been a pipe dream from the beginning. Neal was so proficient at undercover work, it was hard for Peter _not_ to use him that way. Essentially, he'd been employing the same skills for years, as a felon, and he'd honed them to a sharp, perfect edge. Certainly Neal just expected that was what Peter had in mind for him, and he didn't enjoy paper-pushing, anyway. Peter had told her how Neal turned into a whining five-year-old when an operation called for him to do something mundane like surveillance or stakeouts. Neal slid so easily into undercover roles that it was easy to forget that he had no formal training whatsoever. But it made Peter nervous; it always had.

Neal had an uncanny knack for making people trust him, but he also had a tendency to take risks that an agent shouldn't take. He was supremely confident in his own abilities—too confident for Peter's comfort. No one was untouchable. Things went wrong. She knew Peter had long feared that someday, the situation would arise that Neal couldn't smooth-talk his way out of.

She recalled a conversation with Peter, a few months after he'd gotten Neal out of prison. In light of today's events, the memory was chilling.

"_He's really helping, isn't he?" she had said over breakfast one day, Peter had just finished relating the particulars of Neal's latest undercover "adventure."_

_Peter shook his head, a little smile playing around his lips. "I would never say this to him—the last thing he needs is encouragement—but he is such a natural, El. He can become whatever he needs to be, and he's got maybe the lowest panic threshold of anybody I've ever sent undercover. He makes it look effortless. And all of that without any training . . ."_

_She favored him with a knowing look, and he amended, grinning sardonically, "No formal training, but you're right, he's had years of experience."_

"_But there's a downside to that, too," he'd added; the smile had become a frown. "Neal's quick on his feet, but he's not quick enough to outrun a bullet."_

_He sighed. "You remember that case from a few weeks ago—the operation in the park?"_

_Of course she remembered it. The one where Peter had to meet a kidnapper and make an exchange of a dress for a hostage. The one where she'd given him back his old, familiar watch and then spent hours praying that Peter would be okay. She'd never forget the feeling when she finally got the call reassuring her that he was fine. The rush of relief had actually made her dizzy; she'd had to sit down, close her eyes, and take some deep breaths while she drank in the sound of his voice._

"_I'm not likely to forget that one," she replied. In fact, she could quote their entire conversation from that day verbatim. "But, if I remember correctly, Neal helped save your life. Both your lives."_

"_He sure did," Peter agreed instantly. "Jamming the phone was clever. But does Neal stop there? No. Instead of staying in the van like he should have, he jumped out and chased the perp." Peter shook his head. "We have a park full of agents ready to move, yet Neal takes it on himself to run the guy down. I mean, he's not armed, El. He's not even wearing a vest, for Christ's sake. What did he think he was going to do, charm his way out a bullet? Another second and Ghovat would have shot him—if Lauren hadn't gotten there when she did."_

_Peter took a deep breath. "Then our next case—the one with the Bible—he should have been shot. I knew it could happen, and I sent him out anyway. It's pure luck that she didn't hit him."_

"_You think he's reckless."_

"_In the park? Absolutely, he was. And the first case he worked on—the Dutchman? Waltzing into a warehouse full of men with guns? It doesn't get more reckless than that. But on the Bible case, maybe . . ._ _maybe _I_ was the one who was reckless."_

It was the first time he'd openly expressed concern over Neal's safety and the risks he took working for the Bureau. And the first time Peter had questioned his own role. But not the last time—as the months passed, Peter had focused on it more and more.

It was incredible, really, to think about how quickly Neal had eased his way into Peter's life—into both their lives really. How important Neal had become. Neal, whom, everyone knew, Peter didn't _completely_ trust—except with Peter's life, and Peter's wife, and the truly irreplaceable things.

What frightened Elizabeth now was that, somewhere along the way, Neal had become irreplaceable, too.

If he didn't make it . . . _no_. She couldn't think about losing Neal, about the gaping hole in their lives his absence would create. Or about what it would do to Peter. Peter was strong, the strongest person she'd ever known, but the sense of loss—and responsibility—he'd feel for Neal's death would be overwhelming.

She wouldn't think about any of that right now.

Because she couldn't bear it.

_TBC…._

_I'm so honored by the response to this story. It's exciting to know that readers are enjoying (even my off-the-wall POV choices). I'm also so sorry that I've gotten a bit behind on responding to the many wonderful comments-I will work on that. Thanks to everyone for reading, following, and reviewing—it means so much. More on the way soon._


	7. A Hundred Echoes

**Not a Fan of the Bittersweet**

**Chapter 7**

**A Hundred Echoes**

"_For there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one's own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes."  
_― Milan Kundera, _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_

_..._

_Nobody completely trusted him, but everybody liked him._

The thought—his own personal summation of Neal Caffrey's place in the White Collar unit, one he'd formed after just a few days of observation—kept running through Agent Blake's head as he sat at his desk. He was poring over documents, but not really seeing them. Since Agent Berrigan's call, the atmosphere in the office had turned frenetic and tense. Diana had spoken with Graham—the senior agent with Hughes out of town and Burke unavailable—and asked him to relay what had happened, while also requesting help at the scene and in the office.

Graham had called the staff on duty to assemble, climbing the stairs a few steps so everyone could see him. There, he grimly recounted the resolution of the Halbridge case—unbeknownst to the FBI, the assassin Black had been released and returned to New York to finish his commission. He'd been shot and killed by Sara Ellis, but not before he'd wounded Neal Caffrey, who'd been rushed to the hospital.

They were all trained to react as professionals in a crisis, but in the immediate aftermath, the anxiety - and the gloom - in the air were unmistakable as various agents rushed to assist. This was not an ordinary case. Caffrey might be a felon, but he was one of them as well. And he'd built up a surprising amount of good will among his coworkers, as Blake had quickly discovered upon being assigned to the office.

There was a lot of muttered fury directed at the Canadian authorities who'd released Black without notifying the Bureau. Also grim satisfaction with the role Sara Ellis had played, returning fire on Neal's behalf. Everyone in the office had gotten to know Sara over the past few days during her forced stay in the conference room, and most liked her. Even those who'd found her overbearing manner akin to nails on a chalkboard found a whole new appreciation for her now—thanks to her defense of Neal.

Agent Blake—_Probationary Agent Blake_, he thought with some bitterness—was not one of those chosen to assist in the investigation. Like everyone else, he'd gathered around the stairs, listening in shocked silence to the news. Like every agent in the room, he wanted to help - in fact, he _craved _the chance to do something, anything that might be useful. He'd waited around, hoping to hear his name called—for even some menial task—but it didn't happen.

Instead, no one said anything to him at all. Feeling a little lost, and swallowing hard against the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, he went back to reviewing the same documents he'd been working on all day. Earlier, Blake had enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment he'd gained from plowing through the stack of financials. But now, given what had happened, it seemed near to meaningless, and concentrating on the reams of paperwork was proving to be beyond him.

Minutes ticked by. Blake, slumped over the desk, tapping his pen on a file folder and not even trying to look busy as activity swirled around him. His mind kept drifting back to Neal, wondering how he was. Graham had made it plain his condition was grave.

Blake liked Caffrey—it was hard not to. Granted, it was probably part of Neal's con-man persona to butter up everyone he met, but the consultant had been genuinely welcoming from Blake's very first day in White Collar. The FBI had a well-established hierarchy and some agents—not Agent Burke, but plenty of others—made a point of treating a probie like, well, a probie until the appropriate dues were paid. And Blake was still very much in the midst of that dues-paying period.

Caffrey couldn't have cared less, though. He treated Blake like he treated everyone—that is to say, he joked with him, teased gently, asked questions, and generally made him feel important and comfortable at the same time. Neal's desk wasn't far away, so they'd had plenty of opportunities to talk. He had a gift for putting people at ease, and it had gained him far more friends around the office than any felon had a right to expect.

Thinking of Neal injured and in pain made Blake shudder inwardly. Everyone knew Caffrey was a nonviolent offender; Agent Burke would never have brought him on otherwise. And yet somehow he'd ended up being shot. As far as Blake could gather, no White Collar agent in the New York office had ever been wounded in the line of duty. He could only imagine what it was doing to Agent Burke that Neal was the first.

This was Blake's first brush with violence on the job, and it was making his own gut churn. Which in turn was embarrassing because he was supposed to be a professional . . . .

Blake had to admit, he wasn't sorry for the interruption when his phone rang. He answered before the second ring.

"White Collar, Blake."

"Blake, it's Jones. You heard about Caffrey?"

He straightened in his chair. "Yes, Graham told us. Any word?"

Jones' sigh was audible. "Nothing yet."

Blake nodded, though of course the other agent couldn't see that. "The agents you requested are on their way," Blake said, trying to be helpful even as he wondered why Jones would be calling _him_.

"Right," Jones said, his tone absent. Then abruptly, "What are you doing?"

For a moment Blake thought it was a criticism—_aren't you doing anything to help?_ Of course, he realized immediately it wasn't a challenge. He hadn't been assigned any role—and why would he have been? He was only a probie and there were plenty of other, more valuable agents available to assist with the investigation.

"Reviewing balance sheets from the Hamilton case," he admitted, feeling a little ashamed at his own irrelevance.

"Not anymore," Jones told him. "I have a job for you."

"Sure," Blake said, curious about what it could possibly be, but secretly glad to be told to put the paperwork away, if only for a while.

"I want you to get down to the hospital—Kings County. With Agent Burke."

Blake sucked in a quick breath. "Of course. What does he need?" Mind racing, he thought of Caffrey's personnel file, his medical record. _Or maybe the key to the anklet . . . ._

"Well, I don't know exactly, _Agent_ Blake," Jones said, voice frayed with impatience that was the antithesis of his usual laid-back demeanor. "But his partner just got shot. So what _I need_ is to know that he's not sitting there alone."

"Oh," Blake said, feeling like an idiot. "Right."

"Right," Jones repeated flatly. "He might need you to run errands, or get coffee, or make phone calls. He might need you to listen while he vents. Whatever he needs, you do it. If what he needs is nothing, well, then you do that too. And since I can't be there at the moment, I'm delegating you to be the one to do it."

"Of course, Agent Jones. I'm sorry; I—"

Jones sighed, sounding tired. "Forget it; I didn't mean to jump down your throat. It's just that Caffrey . . . he's in bad shape." Jones paused for a long moment before continuing. "I don't want Agent Burke there by himself, especially if Neal—if something bad happens."

Blake swallowed hard, a sudden chill running through him.

What Jones meant was, _If Neal dies, Peter Burke shouldn't be alone when he gets the news._

_Jesus._

"I—I'll leave right away," Blake assured him.

"Good," Jones said. "You do that. And call me as soon as you have any news - the _second_ you know anything, understand? I asked Peter to, but he's got enough to worry about."

"Will do," Blake said. A moment later he added, "Agent Jones?"

"Yeah?"

"Why—why'd you ask me to do this, instead of one of the other agents?"

Jones paused. Blake heard voices in the background, along with radio chatter, and listened while Jones spoke to someone nearby, something about the chain of evidence. Finally Jones said, "I've got my reasons."

Blake waited.

"One, you 'get' Caffrey, you know? You always did, from day one. Two, I know I can count on you to sit there and keep your mouth shut if that's what's called for. And three . . ." Jones' voice drifted off and Blake thought he wasn't going to finish the thought.

"Three," Jones continued. "Peter likes you. Truth is, he's not gonna want anyone there, but I figure he'll tolerate you as well as anyone else."

Blake felt his eyes widen. _Seriously?_ He was trying to decide how to respond to that when Jones spoke again.

"You still there, Blake?"

"Yes, sir."

"One more thing. Whatever you do, don't—" Jones broke off and cleared his throat. "Don't leave him there alone. Even if he tells you to. _Especially_ if he tells you to."

"I'll stay with him," Blake promised.

"Good," Jones said. "You take your orders from me on this. We'll be there as soon as we can." Then he hung up.

Blake jumped up, grabbed his suit jacket and had to remind himself to walk, not run over to Graham's desk. He waited for Graham to finish his phone conversation, an angry, animated discussion punctuated with lots of emphatic gestures and occasional curses.

Blake was pretty sure the senior agent was talking with someone north of the border.

Finally Graham slammed the phone back into the cradle, still muttering furiously under his breath. Blake cleared his throat to get the agent's attention.

"Sir, Agent Jones just called. He wants me to meet Agent Burke at the hospital right away."

Graham glanced up at him sharply, face lined with anxiety. "Shit. Is there news about Caffrey?"

"No," Blake said quickly, "he just thought someone should be there with Agent Burke in case—in case he needs anything."

Graham nodded approval, looking relieved. "Good idea. You want anyone to go with you?"

Blake shook his head. "Not right now. If we need anything, I'll call."

"Okay. We already faxed all of Neal's medical paperwork, by the way. If they need anything else, let me know. And call me directly the minute you hear anything. I'll be down there later."

Nodding, Blake turned on his heel and left in a rush. Agent Burke needed him, which meant Blake had to get there as quickly as he could.

* * *

Having parked the car, Megan headed for the ER, trying to catch up to Burke. Even running full-out, she couldn't manage it, but she at least caught sight of him once she got inside the doors. The crowd of people standing near and inside the door might have slowed him down—only momentarily, though.

The emergency room waiting area was chaotic, as you might expect it to be - just like every other ER Megan had ever been in. Lots of people huddled in groups, talking, weeping, looking worried and/or sick. A multiracial, multi-ethnic mishmash of tired, frightened adults and fidgety, crying children, with a background cacophony of various, unidentifiable languages (because this was New York). In a far-off corner, a baby was wailing its lungs out; the woman holding it in her arms looked half-stoned, like she wasn't even hearing it.

Jimmy met them a few steps inside the door. "You must be Agent Burke. I'm Officer Carlson."

They shook hands as Burke asked, "What's going on?"

Jimmy shook his head. "No updates yet."

Burke frowned and narrowed his eyes. But he didn't say a word. He just turned and walked away. Badge in hand, he cut a smooth, efficient, and utterly single-minded path through the mass of humanity toward the desk, muttering some _Excuse me's _as he went, but never stopping. Megan looked at Jimmy and he looked back, raising an eyebrow at her. Without a word, they hustled to follow Burke, one off each shoulder, flanking him as he made his way through the crowd.

An elderly woman was already there, leaning heavily on a cane as she complained about how long they'd been waiting and _where was the doctor?_ and _why wouldn't someone do something?_ The nurse did an admirable job of listening, pacifying and promising action. To Megan's eyes, she looked like an ER veteran who'd seen everything. All the while, Burke stood close behind, waiting. Megan could see his foot tapping restlessly on the floor, could see the strained expression on his face. When the woman in front of him departed, somewhat mollified, Burke immediately stepped up and leaned in, badge shoved forward. In a _don't mess with me_ voice, he said, "Special Agent Burke, FBI. I need an update on my partner, Neal Caffrey. He was just brought in with a gunshot wound."

_Actually, two wounds, _Megan thought automatically.

The nurse didn't appear fazed by either the badge or the command tone. But when she looked up at Burke, something she saw on his face softened the expression on hers, because she nodded and said, "Yes, let me check on him for you."

She tapped her keyboard and consulted some paperwork before picking up the phone. Burke put his FBI credential away, then occupied himself by peering down over the edge of the counter. He was, Megan realized, trying to read the papers on the desk—and not even bothering to hide it.

The nurse waited for someone to pick up and then spoke.

"Nick"—Megan noticed that Burke reacted to that name, looking up sharply at the nurse's face, and wondered why—"it's Kelsey. I've got Agent Burke here from the FBI. He needs an update on Agent Caffrey."

Megan watched Burke watch the nurse. He was perfectly still, except for the fingers of his left hand, drumming quickly on the top of the desk.

Listening, the nurse nodded, her face expressionless. "When?" she queried. "Yeah. Okay. I will. Thanks, Nick."

She hung up the phone. "Agent Burke, Dr. Vaughn is with your partner right now. She knows you're here, and she will be out to speak with you as soon as she can, okay?"

Burke had clearly been hoping for more than that. "You can't tell me anything?" he asked; Flynn noted how different his voice sounded. The authoritative tone was gone, replaced with a note of what sounded very close to pleading.

"I'm sorry, Agent Burke," the nurse said, and she looked like she really meant it. "It's just that right now, there's nothing to tell. He's being assessed and we'll know more soon."

Nodding curtly, Burke ran a hand through his hair distractedly; the fingers on his other hand, meanwhile, had never stopped tapping.

"We just received Agent Caffrey's authorization paperwork." She paused to bring something up on the screen in front of her. "I do have two questions for the medical history. Do you by any chance know Agent Caffrey's blood—"

"A positive," Burke replied, not giving her time to finish. A grim smile flitted across his face and was gone. He answered the next question before she'd even started it. "And Neal's allergic to penicillin."

She nodded approval, made some notations and finally printed something off that she handed to Burke. "Thank you. Now if you can just look this over and indicate any other conditions that you're aware of in Mr. Caffrey's medical history."

Burke scanned the paper she'd handed to him, reading rapidly. "No, I don't see anything else here . . . not that I'm aware of, anyway."

"Okay, Agent Burke. Sign here, please." He scrawled an illegible-looking signature, and she took the paperwork back. "I promise we'll call for you just as soon as the doctor is available. Please have a seat."

A line had formed behind him. Megan moved out of the way so Burke could step away from the desk. He turned and her heart went out to him at the strange, almost lost expression on his face. Like now he didn't know what to do next. It was obvious to Megan that Burke didn't seem the type who was good at waiting for things to happen. Which was going to make this next part almost unbearable for him.

"Hey, Meg. Agent Burke!" Jimmy had claimed three nearby seats and waved them over. Knowing Jimmy, Megan was half-afraid he'd kicked somebody out to secure them a spot, but she wasn't going to question it. "Over here."

Burke sank into the chair on the end. He leaned back, but only for a moment, then hunched forward, elbows on his knees and hands folded. Megan could see his fingers moving convulsively. She exchanged a knowing glance with Jimmy.

"Has your partner been injured before?" she asked. _Might as well try to keep him talking._

"No, why?" Burke asked, frowning.

"You seemed awfully familiar with the medical stuff."

He snorted. "Neal always made a point of saying that, of course, he was A positive. You know, _smart blood._" Burke shook his head. "Neal has a rather . . . high opinion of himself—not that it's unwarranted . . . ." Then a thoughtful look came over his face. "And when you chase a guy for three years, you tend to get pretty familiar with the details."

"Wow, three years?" Megan interjected. He hadn't mentioned that in the car, and it put a whole new spin on things. "Seriously?"

Burke nodded, looking resigned.

"Yeah, what's the deal there?" Jimmy cut in. "Your partner's a reformed criminal, huh? How's that work?"

Megan winced inwardly, but the truth was that, for Jimmy, that was actually rather tactful. She glanced at Agent Burke, who, she was relieved to see, didn't look surprised. Or annoyed.

"Yes, Neal consults on white collar crime for us as a condition of his release." Burke's tone was mostly even, but there was a hint in there that indicated he wasn't interested in an overly long discussion of the topic.

Jimmy was not normally one to pick up on subtle clues—nor would he ever win any awards for sensitivity. But even he must have heard the warning note in Agent Burke's voice, because he just nodded and looked thoughtful (to Megan's overwhelming relief).

A silence ensued. Megan tried to think of something to say that wouldn't aggravate Burke (or encourage Jimmy to make a stupid comment that would accomplish the same result).

Before she could come up with anything suitable, Burke got up. She watched him walk to the opposite end of the aisle, turn, and then pace down the other side. Clearly he wasn't going anywhere. He just needed to be moving, to be doing something besides sitting still. His phone rang, and he answered it, still continuing to pace as he talked.

Jimmy's eyes followed Burke as well. "What the _hell_, Meg." At least he had the good sense to keep his voice down. "He works with a criminal. Guy wears a tracking anklet, for Christ's sake."

"Well, he's a _white collar_ criminal," she pointed out in her most reasonable tone.

Predictably, her partner was unmoved. "What difference does that make?"

Burke's words echoed in her mind, talking about Caffrey. _He has so much potential. He just needs to realize it. _She could imagine how Jimmy would respond if she told him _that. _So instead she said, "Oh, come on. This guy's not like the low-lifes we see every day on the beat. He's . . . he's not violent, for one thing. And you heard Burke. What did he say he chased him for—three years? So that means he's smart—"

"Yeah, and he could turn on you at any minute," Jimmy scoffed. "Or run. And I'm guessing he'd be pretty damned fucking hard to catch."

It figured that Jimmy would say that; he had enough cynicism for both of them. Her partner had grown up in the projects, with a father he barely knew and a mother who'd dedicated her life to making sure that Jimmy didn't turn out like her much older son Marcus, who'd fallen in with the wrong crowd. Marcus was currently enjoying the hospitality of the state of New York—and would be for the next two years, courtesy of a felony drug conviction.

Compared to Jimmy, Meg's childhood, though far from idyllic, was practically Rockwellian. She liked to think of herself as a bit more of an optimist when it came to human nature.

Though, the longer you were on the job, the harder it was to see the sunny side of things.

Megan mulled it over. "Burke didn't seem worried about that. But the whole thing is pretty strange. In the car, he called his wife, and you should have heard her."

She kept her voice low and her eyes on Burke; this kind of idle gossip was the last thing she wanted him to hear. Frankly, Megan already felt guilty for bringing it up. She should've kept her mouth shut—because Jimmy looked far too intrigued—but it was too late now. _Think before you speak next time, Meg. _ "His wife was totally freaked out about Caffrey. She's coming down here—as fast as she can manage it."

"His wife? Jesus." He shook his head in disbelief.

Megan gave him a _look. _"You know how it is. Whatever Caffrey was or is, or whatever he's done, the fact remains: they're partners."

She didn't have to say anything else. For a cop, the word _partner _said it all.

They locked eyes for a long moment. Jimmy opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right." He eyed her for a few more seconds before his gaze skittered away as he cleared his throat uncomfortably. "That—that would be tough to take."

She took a moment to reflect on the fact that, in all the time they'd been partners, that was about as close as she'd ever seen Jimmy to getting emotional.

"How did he look?" she asked, changing the subject, knowing Jimmy would know what she meant.

Jimmy shook his head. "Shit, Meg, not good." He leaned back, stretching out his legs, and waved a hand in the air in a defeatist kind of gesture. "That much blood? I really thought he was gonna be DOA. The EMTs had their hands full, let me tell ya."

The conversation ended abruptly as Burke returned from his circuit of the waiting room, slipping his cell back into his pocket.

Megan hoped fervently that he hadn't overheard.

* * *

As she sat in traffic, gritting her teeth helplessly, Elizabeth tried to think of distracting things, happy things. She thought about the last time she'd seen Peter before she left for San Francisco. The quiet, comfortable dinner they'd shared at home, talking of everything and nothing, just enjoying each other's company. How Peter had surreptitiously fed Satchmo his leftover broccoli . . . _oh, damn. Satchmo. _ Peter would have been the one to feed and walk him tonight, but he wouldn't be doing that now.

She pulled out her cell to call for help, deciding to try Charlotte first.

Unlike most of their neighbors, Charlotte was a good candidate to actually be home during the day. A free-lance writer and fellow dog-owner who worked mostly from home, she'd met Elizabeth at a networking event several years ago, and they'd both been surprised to learn they lived only three blocks apart. Ever since then, they'd gotten together semi-regularly, and Charlotte had been entrusted with a key and the alarm code for the house.

She let out a sigh of relief when Charlotte picked up on the fourth ring. "Hi Charlotte, it's Elizabeth."

"Hey, Elizabeth!" Charlotte's voice was warm and delighted. "Didn't know you were back in town. What's up?"

"Char, we've had an emergency and Peter won't be home to take care of Satchmo tonight. Would you be able to feed and walk Satch for us?"

Her friend didn't hesitate. "Of course. I'll be home the rest of the day. Your emergency—it's nothing too serious, I hope?"

Elizabeth sighed. "One of Peter's agents was shot and he's at the hospital. I'm—I'm meeting him there."

Charlotte gasped. "Oh, how awful. Elizabeth, is Peter all right?"

"He's fine, he wasn't there when it happened. But he won't be home any time soon."

"I'm always happy to help with Satch—whatever you need, you just let me know," Charlotte said firmly. She paused and then said, voice hesitant now, "The agent who was shot—it wasn't—it wasn't Neal, was it?"

If the situation hadn't been so dire, Elizabeth might have laughed. How in the world did Charlotte know Neal? Then again, this was Neal. He'd somehow befriended Charlotte—why should she be surprised?

"I'm afraid so," she said, hating to be the bearer of such news.

Charlotte let out a little noise of distress. "Oh, my God, no. Elizabeth, is he—how is he? Will he be all right?"

Really, Elizabeth knew, she shouldn't say anything. Neal's health was a private matter she shouldn't be speaking about. But Charlotte sounded so distraught, Elizabeth felt she had to say something. Not that what she knew was going to make Charlotte feel any better.

"We don't know yet," she said. "But Peter's very worried. I don't . . . I just know that it's serious, Char."

"I just can't believe it. That's terrible. Such a wonderful, charming person . . ."

"How is it that you know Neal?" Elizabeth asked; she couldn't help herself.

Charlotte laughed a little. "I ran into him one day when I was walking Baron and, he was, I guess, walking Satchmo for you? We struck up a conversation"—_a specialty of Neal's_, Elizabeth thought with a tiny smile—"and I was telling him about my article on twenty-first century feminism in _Mother Jones_."

"Oh, I see. Had he—had he read it?"

"No, but he had some really interesting thoughts on the role of women in developing countries vis a vis industrialized nations, along with modern views of empowerment," Charlotte said, voice brightening a bit like it always did when she warmed to a topic.

Elizabeth shook her head. "Did he really."

"Oh, yes. And don't you know, the next time I saw him walking Satch, he had read the article. He was so complimentary—not to mention he was asking me all kinds of questions about it. I wish every reader was so attentive."

_Cripes, I'm her friend and even I didn't read her article, _Elizabeth thought guiltily. Charlotte had been trying to get published in _Mother Jones_ for a long time (along with lots of other publications, of course); she'd been excited to finally make the cut. Elizabeth had meant to read the piece, she really had. In fact, the magazine was sitting somewhere . . . maybe in the stack on her nightstand? Or downstairs in the living room . . . .

And here Neal, who hardly knew Charlotte, had searched out the article and made a point to engage her.

Just when you thought you knew Neal, he'd surprise you.

_Modern views of __empowerment, indeed . . . .  
_

" . . . quite well-read," Charlotte was saying; Elizabeth forced herself back to the conversation. "Not every day you find someone that charming _and_ intelligent."

"Neal's a rare breed," Elizabeth agreed.

"And he really thinks highly of you and Peter."

"Oh," Elizabeth said, surprised and not knowing what else to say.

"Yes. I told him that he was the first FBI agent I'd ever met, except for Peter, of course. And he laughed and said he wasn't an agent, he was just a guy Peter put up with."

"He asked how I knew you two and I told him how we got to be friends," Charlotte continued. "I remember what he said, because it struck me as odd. He said, _Peter and Elizabeth have a way of making people feel welcome, whether they deserve it or not. _And somehow . . . well, maybe I'm guessing wrong, but I just . . . I got the feeling that he meant himself, somehow."

_Whether they deserve it or not . . . oh, Neal. _Elizabeth felt her heart constrict in her chest.

"So I told him, 'Neal, not just anybody is trusted to walk Satchmo, which means you must rate pretty high. And he said, _Trust is an elastic concept._"

Elizabeth managed a weak laugh. "Now _that_ sounds like something Neal would say."

"Well, I certainly hope he's all right," Charlotte said, serious again. She paused. "And don't worry for a second about Satch. I'll feed him and take him for a nice long walk. I can even keep him over if you want."

"Thanks, Char. I'll let you know if we need you to keep him. We really appreciate it."

"Would you mind calling me if there's any news?"

"Of course not."

Charlotte was silent for a long moment; then she said, in a voice full of quiet emotion, "You'll all be in my prayers, Elizabeth."

For the first time since she'd heard the news, Elizabeth found herself blinking away tears.

_TBC . . . ._

_Thanks to everyone hanging in there with this story. If you've got a moment to share it, any feedback is eagerly anticipated!_


	8. Make Large the World

**Not a Fan of the Bittersweet**

**Chapter 8**

**Make Large the World**

"_There is no small act of kindness. Every compassionate act makes large the world."  
_― Mary Anne Radmacher

…**.**

Scanning the waiting room, Blake searched for Agent Burke. Finally he found him, sitting straight up in one of those really uncomfortable plastic chairs and, incongruously, staring at nothing. Blake didn't think he'd ever seen Agent Burke staring into space like that. He was always focused, always engaged. And there was an unfamiliar tension in his face, his posture. Seeing it, Blake felt a sharp pang of worry.

Next to the agent, two cops were chatting animatedly. The female cop shot a furtive glance at Agent Burke, and a moment later, said something to him. Belatedly, he responded.

Walking over to stand in front of them, Blake took a deep breath. "Agent Burke."

Burke looked startled and rose to his feet. In tandem, the two cops followed suit. "Blake. What are you doing here?"

"Agent Jones sent me, sir. In case you needed anything."

The initial look of surprise on Agent Burke's face turned thoughtful. Jones's words rang out in Blake's head: _He won't want you there. _

He wondered what he would do if Agent Burke ordered him to leave. If Peter said, _And what exactly would you be doing? _Or, _the sentiment is appreciated, Blake, but your presence isn't needed._

On that point, Blake's fears were groundless. Agent Burke didn't challenge his presence or try to dismiss him. Instead, he eyed Blake for another long moment and just nodded. "Agent Blake, these are Officers Flynn," he waved a hand at the female cop, "and Carlson."

Handshakes were exchanged as Blake asked, without preamble, "How's Neal?"

Agent Burke shook his head, face creasing into a frown. "Someone's supposed to come out with an update, but I'm still waiting." His anxiety was palpable, and Blake registered a note of frustration in his voice that he had never heard before.

They settled in to wait. Time passed and nothing much happened. Agent Burke never went very long without looking at the doors to the treatment area, hopefully at first and then, as the minutes ticked by, resignedly. Occasionally, the doors would open and other people in the waiting room were called, but not Peter. Blake wondered if the length of time was a good or bad sign. No news didn't necessarily mean good news.

Except, he thought, swallowing hard, that if Neal had died, they would know.

_So maybe no news was good news, after all._

Sometimes Agent Burke paced. Blake kept an eye on him, as unobtrusively as he could. It wasn't like Peter could go far, anyway. Occasionally Agent Burke's phone would ring—or more accurately, vibrate—he'd turned the ringer off when it became apparent that the flow of calls was going to be incessant.

And, of course, there was nothing to say. Because there had been no word.

Blake was feeling very useless—not much different than he'd felt back at the office, really. Now that he was here, he wished there was something, anything, that he could _do._ But he could think of nothing. He'd asked Agent Burke if he needed anything, but the answer had been no. He'd talked with the two NYPD officers and tried to draw Peter into the conversation, but with little success. Agent Burke didn't seem interested in talking. Blake thought of Agent Jones, who was so close to their boss, having worked with him for years. If he were here, it would probably be different. _He'd know what to do, _Blake thought, with a touch of bitterness.

Just then, the sliding doors at the far end of the waiting room opened and a harried-looking nurse came out. "Family of Neal Caffrey?"

Agent Burke jumped to his feet and was in front of her in three quick strides. "I'm Special Agent Burke, FBI."

She consulted her clipboard. "Oh, right. Yes. Agent Burke. If you'll come with me, the doctor would like to speak with you."

Peter nodded, following right behind her as she swiped her ID card to open the doors. The two of them disappeared.

….

The male cop glanced down as his radio crackled to life. He got up and walked away to update his sergeant. Blake heard him say, "Yeah, still here . . . no, no word yet, but they just called his partner back to talk to him."

The red-haired cop—_Flynn, _he remembered—turned to him, smiling tentatively. "So, how long have you worked with Agent Burke?" Blake thought this was a prelude to the inevitable comment on his youthful appearance (something he'd gotten resigned to), but she only nodded when he said, "Just a few weeks. I'm a probationary agent."

"And Agent Caffrey?" She watched Blake carefully; he blinked at her use of the word _agent _to describe Caffrey, but he didn't correct her.

"Same—I've only been here a few weeks."

"Agent Burke told me he's actually a consultant."

"Yes, that's right," Blake responded. Again, Flynn noticed that he volunteered nothing—probably out of some kind of loyalty to Caffrey, she guessed. She appreciated that.

Since Burke wasn't nearby, Meg decided to indulge her curiosity. "So, if you don't mind my asking, what's it like working with a criminal?"

The young agent gave her a sharp glance, which was apparently his version of Burke's patented glare. As dirty looks went, it needed work, but then again, Blake was a probie—probably fresh out of Quantico. You didn't develop an evil eye like Burke's overnight; that kind of glower took some seasoning to pull off convincingly.

It also didn't help that Agent Blake looked like he was about twelve years old.

_He was kind of cute, though . . . undeniably cute. _

"Who told you about Neal?" he asked, voice hard.

"Your boss. Agent Burke."

"Oh," he said, relaxing a little, as if that somehow gave him leave to speak. Still, the agent hesitated. "Right. Well, working with Neal is . . . enlightening. He's very knowledgeable. I've learned a lot from him in a short time."

"I bet," Flynn answered. It was kind of endearing how carefully Blake chose his words, how protective he was of Caffrey. "But—"

Carlson returned and sat down, lounging back in the chair and inserting himself into the middle of the conversation as was his custom. "Yeah, what's it like?"

Blake gave him an appraising glance. "It's a big advantage," he told them. "Neal's so smart, he knows what these guys are gonna do before they do it."

"Yeah," Carlson retorted, "but how do you know _he's _not gonna do it, too? When you're not looking, say?"

That made Blake smile, but, to Megan, it was a smile that looked like it held a secret. "Well, that's a long story, and it's mostly all about Agent Burke . . . ."

* * *

Peter had been ushered into a tiny consultation room, but he didn't even have to time to look around when a youngish-looking woman wearing a white coat and a stethoscope strode up to him. Her red-blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. "You're Agent Caffrey's partner?"

"Yes, Agent Peter Burke." They shook hands.

"I'm Dr. Vaughn. I performed the initial assessment of Mr. Caffrey. He presented at the ER with two gunshot wounds to the right side of his abdomen."

Peter nodded. The doctor didn't look like a person who had happy news. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, causing a sensation that approached physical pain.

"Your partner is being prepped for surgery, Agent Burke."

Peter exhaled slowly. _He's alive. Thank you, God._

"He's suffered significant damage and he's lost a great deal of blood. Now that we've gotten him stabilized, we need to get him into the OR right away. The surgeon, Dr. Simmons, will likely extract the bullet and work on repairing the damage and stopping the bleeding."

"You said _likely_?" Peter wondered what that meant.

Dr. Vaughn gave him a nod. "Sometimes, depending on location and other factors, a surgeon may decide to leave a bullet where it is, as counterintuitive as that might seem. In some cases, it makes sense not to disturb it. But the decision will be up to Dr. Simmons, and I can assure you he's very experienced."

"If Neal's lost that much blood, will he—is he strong enough for surgery right now?"

A frown creased her face. "It's not an ideal situation, but time is of the essence. He's being transfused. There are very serious risks associated with surgery, but we really don't have any choice. We have to stop the bleeding as soon as we can."

_In other words, _Peter thought, swallowing hard, _Neal might not make it through the surgery. _

_But without it, he'll die anyway._

He cleared his throat. "Is he—" Peter stopped himself from saying something even more stupid _(is he going to make it?). _The doctor couldn't answer that question; no one could. Instead, he rephrased, asking, "What are his chances?"

Dr. Vaughn didn't answer right away, but he caught her eye and what he saw there sent a cold chill of fear through his veins. "We're doing everything we can. Dr. Simmons is an excellent surgeon, and he will do everything possible for your partner."

Peter nodded mutely, gut churning. He was all too aware that what she'd said wasn't really an answer. The cold had gone, replaced with a disquieting numbness.

She eyed him, as if waiting for him to ask another question. When he didn't, she said, "We'll need you to sign a consent form, Agent Burke. According to Agent Caffrey's paperwork, you're authorized to make medical decisions on his behalf."

"Yes," Peter said, finding his voice again.

Later, he would think of all the things he might have said, the questions he could have asked. But in that moment, he could think of only one other thing to say.

"Can I see him?"

Peter was pretty sure he already knew what her answer would be, but he couldn't help asking.

He had to.

"Agent Burke, we really don't—" she began, then broke off abruptly, frowning. "You haven't seen him?"

Peter shook his head, his eyes never leaving her face. "I've been waiting, but this is the first I've been called back here." He could hear the frustration in his own voice, didn't bother to try to hide it.

The doctor looked down at the chart, then back up again. Now her eyes were full of compassion as she studied him. Almost as if she was seeing him as a human being for the first time.

"I'm sorry. Just a second."

Dr. Vaughn turned and walked to the doorway. The nurse was standing just outside, the same one who'd brought him back from the waiting room. Peter hadn't even realized she was there.

Out in the hallway, they spoke in quiet tones; over the ER noise Peter only just caught the words _Burke _and _Caffrey_ and _partner._

The doctor returned immediately, with the nurse in tow. "Agent Burke, Valerie is going to take you back to see Agent Caffrey. We don't have much time, because the surgeon is almost ready, OK? And I'm afraid your partner isn't conscious, so he won't be able to respond to you."

Peter nodded, trying to stay outwardly calm, but inside his heart was racing—he wasn't sure if it was with anticipation, or fear, or desperation. Maybe all three. Then the nurse was there, smiling at him and saying, _please come with me, Agent Burke, _and leading him down a hallway, past a row of curtained cubicles, until she stopped and stepped aside to make room.

And suddenly there was Neal, lying on a bed, motionless with his head tilted to the side, away from Peter. He was completely surrounded by machines, hooked up to a frightening array of tubes and monitors, being given blood and oxygen and God only knew what else. His skin was so pale it looked almost translucent, and the sight of him lying there, inert and fragile and helpless, sent a jagged spike of fear through Peter's heart.

He'd known it would be bad, and yet, somehow, Peter was unprepared for the gut-punch of seeing Neal in this state.

Of seeing Neal look as if he might already be dead.

There were orderlies standing nearby, and nurses. They were obviously waiting—waiting for Peter—and he was reminded again of just how little time there was. Stepping forward quickly, he looked down at Neal and took a deep breath, realizing that he didn't know what the hell to say.

"Hey, Neal. It's me. It's Peter." His voice sounded off. Rough and husky with emotion. Like it belonged to someone else. He was conscious of the irony that the only people hearing him right now were strangers, the hospital staff waiting to take Neal away. That Neal wasn't hearing him. But Peter couldn't help it; he had to talk to him anyway.

He cleared his throat and took a deep, steadying breath. "I came as soon as I heard, but they—they wouldn't let me see you." On an impulse, he put his hand on top of Neal's where it lay, lifeless, on top of the sheet; he could feel the coolness radiating from it. Panic began to rise up inside him and he resolutely ignored it.

Catching himself pausing, he felt annoyed at his own stupidity. _Neal's not going to answer you; he can't._

"I can't stay, because they're going to do surgery. They're going to fix you up, so you'll be just fine." He reached out, awkwardly pushing a strand of Neal's disheveled hair back from where it had flopped down onto his forehead.

"The doctors here are good, Neal, that's what they tell me. And I have to go now, so they can help you, but I'll be waiting. So don't—don't go anywhere, all right? They took off your anklet, but don't even think about going anywhere." He tried a small laugh, but it sounded shaky, dying away before he could finish. "Because once it's over, I'll be there."

Peter hesitated, swallowed hard. "And I'm sorry, Neal. Sorry I wasn't there . . . before."

A soft voice came from just behind him. "Excuse me, Agent Burke, I'm sorry, but we really need to get Mr. Caffrey to the OR."

He nodded, still looking down at his partner. "I have to go now, Neal, but I—I'll see you soon, okay?" Peter took his hand away and stepped back, watching as the orderlies pushed Neal away, down the hall and around a corner. Gone.

Valerie led him back down the hall to the consultation room, where a sheaf of papers awaited him. She showed him the various places he was supposed to sign and initial. It was the kind of thing people would joke about—that they were signing their life away.

_A lousy choice of words._

Peter stared at the document in front of him. No doubt all of the risks were listed there, amidst the paragraphs of legalese. He started to skim the text, but then halted. The doctor had just said Neal didn't have time. And really, Peter didn't need to see it all spelled out for him. He already knew that the surgery was dangerous, that Neal might die. But without the surgery, Neal _would _die.

What else was there to know?

Peter signed everything blindly.

The nurse left with the papers, then returned a few moments later with Neal's belongings, neatly sealed in a clear plastic bag. Whatever was left of his clothes would be preserved as evidence, initially, Peter knew. But judging by the blood Peter had seen on the floor of Sara's apartment, there would be nothing there to save, nothing that could ever be worn again.

Peter carefully didn't think about the question of Neal would be alive to wear them.

He examined the contents of the bag, which didn't take long; Neal traveled light. Apparently, the only items he'd had on him were his wallet, his FBI ID, and his cell phone. The remains of the anklet, which had been cut in two, probably by emergency room personnel. Oh, and Neal's ever-present lock picks. No keys, but that probably made sense. June or her staff was usually around to let you in the front door (_or, in a pinch, Neal could pick it)_, and Peter didn't think Neal's apartment door even _had _a lock.

_No keys, but a set of lock picks. _Peter shook his head. Quintessential Neal, right there.

The presence of the ID surprised him; Neal wasn't in the habit of flashing it around. Peter hadn't been sure whether Neal even carried it on him as a matter of course, and he found it oddly touching that, in fact, Neal did. He flipped open the wallet, staring at the photo as his mind wandered back to the day he'd presented it to Neal.

* * *

_He'd found Neal on the terrace, leaning over to gaze at the view. Appearing to drink it in and reluctant to turn away, even after realizing that Peter was standing there. Perfectly understandable behavior for a man who'd been staring at the inside of a prison cell for nearly four years._

_Finally sitting at the table, Neal was all smiles, very devil-may-care in his old-fashioned robe as he leaned back comfortably in the chair and casually teased Peter about his suit. He looked like a character in a '40s romantic comedy and acted like a man with no worries._

_But acting was all it had been. Because it hadn't taken long—only a few seconds, in fact—for the carefree façade to crack just a bit. _

"_Did they make a decision?" So the small talk was over, without even a pro forma attempt to segue into this most serious of topics. Neal's grin had faded and Peter could see the tension that replaced it. An atypical moment of visible nervousness for the ever-cool Neal Caffrey._

_The various thorny bureaucratic aspects of finalizing this arrangement had been keeping Peter busy for the last few days. Christ, it had been a bear to make the work-release happen. But Neal was unaware of all of that—because Peter had very deliberately kept him in the dark. And Neal, to his credit, hadn't bothered Peter about it. He'd never even asked._

_Until now._

_Peter had carefully set down his coffee cup—June's Italian roast was something to be savored—and studied Neal for a few seconds, feeling like he was about to step into the great unknown. Wondering whether this was really going to work. _

_Well, it was time to start finding out. _

_He held up the FBI ID so Neal could see it. "Figured if we didn't, you'd end up making one of these on your own."_

_As he took the wallet in his hand, Neal laughed—a real, honest-to-goodness laugh of the kind he hardly ever allowed himself. It was surprise, and relief, and delight, all rolled into one. Peter would have smiled back, but he suppressed it, because Neal needed to understand that this was serious._

"_I'm official," Neal said, examining the ID in wonderment._

"_You're a consultant," Peter shot back, a hint of sternness in his voice, "and I own you for four years. You okay with that?"_

_Neal didn't hesitate. "Yeah." _

_Actually, it had sounded more like a 'hell, yeah.'_

* * *

Peter stared at the photo. The Neal in the picture looked young, his hair long, his eyes almost soulful. It looked like the Neal he'd chased—not the Neal he worked with every day. _But they're the same person, don't forget, _he told himself. Still, the Neal in the photo looked like he should be making a living by painting expressionist landscapes, or writing romantic poetry, or something. He didn't look like a world-class con artist. Or an FBI consultant.

Then again, Peter thought, sighing, that was probably the point.

In the background, someone was talking. He looked up.

"Agent Burke?"

The nurse, Valerie, had returned. Meeting her eyes, he stood up hastily, plastic bag in hand.

"If you're ready, you can come back with me to the waiting room. In a few minutes, we'll have an aide take you and anyone waiting with you up to the surgical waiting area. You can stay there until your partner is out of surgery."

More waiting. Well, of course. Peter realized, annoyed with himself, that he hadn't asked the doctor for any kind of time estimate.

She glanced at him and, as if reading his mind, said, "Just so you know, Agent Burke, the procedure could very likely take hours. Don't be alarmed if you don't hear anything right away."

_Don't be alarmed. _Part of him wanted to laugh at the idea that he wasn't already _alarmed, _that he hadn't sped past _alarmed _a long time ago, to arrive at something closer to _panicked. _Or _terrified. _

Instead of saying that, he swallowed. "That's—that's good to know. Thank you."

They had reached the sliding doors that opened out into the waiting area. She tapped a button to open them and smiled at him. "Please have a seat, Agent Burke. Someone will be out shortly."

* * *

Blake and the two NYPD officers were right where he'd left them, deep in conversation. They had the look of fast friends. Blake said something that made them look at each other, amused, and then laugh heartily. Peter wondered what he'd said, feeling a flash of resentment that quickly faded. It was a stupid thing to feel upset about, anyway. There was no reason for all of them to sit around looking glum.

It wasn't their friend, their partner, who might be dying.

Anyway, Peter thought, forcing his mind back to practical matters, he should be glad Blake was connecting with people from NYPD. A kid like him, fresh out of Quantico, could always learn something from the street smarts of beat cops like Flynn and Carlson, if he took the time to. And Blake was bright enough to know that.

Flynn happened to catch sight of him first; her expression quickly sobered. She tapped her partner's knee and said something that made them look in Peter's direction. Automatically, all three of them stood. Blake's eyes immediately found the plastic bag Peter was carrying and then settled anxiously on Peter's face.

Peter Burke was back and not happy. At least, Blake thought, trying to find something positive, the agent looked more frustrated than stricken.

"How is he?" Blake asked.

"He's going into surgery," he said, parroting what they'd told him. "It's too early to tell."

"Did you see him?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah. Just for a minute. He . . . he didn't look good, but . . ." his voice died away.

Everyone stood there uneasily, absorbing the news, until Peter broke the silence.

"There's a separate waiting area—the nurse is going to be out in a minute to take me there. Officer Flynn, Officer Carlson, I think this is where we part company." Peter extended a hand. "I'm sure you have to get back. You've already gone above and beyond."

Flynn and Carlson shook hands with him, as they exchanged a fleeting glance.

"Agent Burke, we can stay, in case . . . in case you need anything," Flynn said.

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary," Peter replied firmly. "It's just going to be a lot of waiting. Hours, from what they tell me."

They still looked dubious and now it was Blake they were shooting surreptitious glances at—to which he responded with an almost-imperceptible nod.

"As long as you're sure," Carlson put in. "I mean, we don't mind."

Peter shook his head. "No, but your sergeant might, though. Better you're out there catching crooks instead of babysitting a fed. Thanks for staying with my partner," he said, looking at Carlson, who nodded and made an impatient _it was nothing _gesture with his hand.

He turned to Megan next. "Officer Flynn, thanks for the ride—" Peter gave her a little smile, "and for the company."

She shrugged dismissively. "Glad I could help. And we—I gave Agent Blake my number. You know, so he can call me with the good news later." She smiled shyly at Blake, who returned it, blushing ever so slightly in a way that made Peter wonder if there might not have been a dual purpose in sharing that number.

_Yeah, _Peter couldn't help thinking, _Blake had connected with the NYPD, all right. _"That's good," he said.

An awkward little pause ensued. Flynn broke it.

"I'll be praying for your partner, Agent Burke," she said abruptly.

Burke's gaze had wandered down to the bag containing Neal's belongings, but at her words, he glanced up at her face. His expression had softened and his eyes, though shadowed with worry, were warm as he answered, "Thank you, Officer Flynn. That means a lot."

* * *

Jimmy had checked in with the precinct, to let them know they were on their way back, while Megan was behind the wheel, as was her preference. Her partner's wasn't a _bad _driver, exactly. It was just that she found life a lot less stressful when he was safely ensconced in the passenger seat.

When she took a turn that didn't lead back to the station house, he looked at her curiously. "Going the back way?"

"Just a quick detour." Which, she realized, was more cryptic than she needed to be. But Jimmy probably wouldn't understand. For what she was about to do, she knew very well that location didn't matter. But on matters like this, Megan was kind of a traditionalist, so . . . .

"Hey, there's a spot," she said, hitting the accelerator a little harder than she'd intended.

"And people say I'm a lousy driver," he groused, but when she shot a sideways glance at him, Megan could see the twinkle in his eye.

She'd thought that, once he realized where she was going, Jimmy might rib her a bit, maybe have a laugh at her expense. But as she pulled up in front of St. Francis and shut off the engine, Jimmy didn't say a word.

Finding a legal parking spot this close felt like an incredible stroke of luck. Well, if God was working miracles today, that had to be a good sign, right?

"Be right back," she promised. "This won't take long."

"Oh, hell, Meg." He gave her an exasperated look. "I'll come with ya."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

Megan eyed him with surprise—and a hint of concern. Her partner had been raised a Baptist, but probably hadn't been inside a church in years. "Nice of you to offer," she said, hedging, "but maybe it would be . . . safer if you stayed out here."

"_Safer_?" he repeated, perplexed.

"Yeah, I mean, what if lightning strikes or something?"

"Hey, we got ourselves a comedian here," Jimmy shot back as she smiled sweetly at him. His lack of religion was something Megan rarely teased him about—but this was a golden opportunity she wasn't going to pass up.

"I'll have you know," he said, sounding quite self-righteous, as they both got out of the squad car, "that I went to Manuel Alvarez's wedding six months ago and nothing happened."

Megan looked at him solemnly. "And to think that some people don't believe in miracles."

Jimmy shook his head, chuckling and muttering "_goddamned smart ass_" under his breath.

"We're going into God's house," she hissed, mock-angry. "Watch your language."

Her partner rolled his eyes, but kept his mouth shut.

As they walked through the door, Megan sobered quickly, remembering why they were here. The air in the church was refreshingly cool on her skin. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dim light after the bright sunshine outside. She dipped her hand in the holy water font by the door and blessed herself, Jimmy hovering right behind her.

Megan took a moment in the stillness to appreciate the beauty of the stained glass windows that ran along both walls and reached up to the ceiling, high above. It was amazing how the very act of entering a place like this brought a measure of instant tranquility. Somehow, she always felt closer to God in these kinds of traditional churches, as opposed to the more modern ones. And, as a kid, staring at the stained glass windows had been one of her favorite diversions during long, boring sermons.

Upon reaching the last pew, she walked in far enough to leave room for Jimmy to enter behind her, then pulled out the kneeler and sank down. Her partner sat for a moment, hesitating, but then followed suit, grunting softly as he knelt. The kneeler creaked a little under his weight.

Leaning forward on the pew in front of her, Megan rested her chin on her folded hands, lifting her eyes to gaze at the vaulted ceiling. She prayed fiercely for Neal Caffrey, whom she didn't know (but felt, just a little, as if she did) and for Peter Burke, whom she barely knew (but you only had to spend a few minutes around Agent Burke to realize how devastated he would be if the worst happened).

In her eighteen months on the force, Megan had experienced only one fatality. It had been an accident and not anyone she'd known well. Yet it had still felt like losing a member of her own family.

She thought about how worried she'd been, three months ago, when a low-life bastard had come at Jimmy with a knife. It had been just your everyday, garden-variety domestic; plus, the idiot had been drunk out of his mind and no real threat. Jimmy had dodged it easily, disarming him in one smooth movement and even joking later about how the guy looked like he'd been moving in slow motion. But still, it was the scariest moment Megan had yet had as a cop. The rush of fear and adrenaline had taken a disturbingly long time to fade. And that night, she'd woken up with visions of Jimmy, bleeding out from a stab wound, lying in a pool of his own blood.

She thought about the ugly red stain on the floor where Caffrey had lain.

She thought about how close partners always were. She thought, suddenly, of Burke talking with his wife, the note of helpless anguish in his voice.

Megan thought about all those things, dread filling her chest.

And then she closed her eyes, bowed her head, and prayed some more.

_TBC . . . ._

_Thanks for reading; more coming soon. Comments are not only welcome, but deeply appreciated._


	9. The Simplest Truth

**Not a Fan of the Bittersweet**

**Chapter 9**

**The Simplest Truth**

"_Every decent con man knows that the simplest truth is more powerful than even the most elaborate lie."  
_― Ally Carter, _Uncommon Criminals _

…**.**

Agent Burke stood there watching as Flynn and Carlson departed, then looked down at the bag containing Neal's belongings. Observing him, Blake started to say something, but then Jones's words echoed in his mind—the part about keeping his mouth shut.

So he did.

The moment dragged on, though, with Agent Burke still staring at the bag in his hand. Blake wondered nervously what he was thinking. Wondered whether he should interject something after all. Not for the first time, he wondered what Agent Jones would have done.

"There's a separate area for patients in surgery," Agent Burke finally said, as if he hadn't just mentioned that very point. "I'll be going there to wait."

"Right," Blake said, carefully attuned to his boss's use of the word _I_ (as opposed to _we_)_. _

Agent Burke checked his phone and then looked up at Blake, a thoughtful expression on his face.

_Here it comes, _Blake thought.

"Agent Blake, I appreciate your coming down here. But the nurse said it could be a long wait. Very long, and there's no point in you sitting here that whole time. You might as well head back to the office."

Again, Blake heard Jones' words in his mind. _He won't want you there._

He took a moment to gather himself. "Yes, but I—I think I should stay here, sir," Blake said, feeling uncomfortable at challenging a senior agent—and not just any senior agent, but _Peter fucking Burke_, for God's sake.

"Stay here to do what?" Peter asked bluntly. "Babysit me?" When Blake didn't answer right away, Peter added, forcing patience into his voice, "All right. What were you working on? Before you came down here."

"Reviewing documents on the Hamilton case."

"And you don't feel that's important?" Now Agent Burke's voice was almost frightening. There was a warning note in there that no probationary agent ever wanted to hear.

"No, of course it is." Blake took a deep breath. "Just not as important as being here."

Agent Burke's mouth tightened, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Except there's no work to be done here. You could be much more useful back at the office."

"I, uh, have to disagree with you, Agent Burke. Respectfully, of course" Blake added hastily. "And I was—ordered to stay here with you."

Seizing on that. Agent Burke narrowed his eyes. "Ordered?" Then he remembered. "Oh. Jones."

Blake nodded and watched Agent Burke blow out a breath, long and slow, like he was mentally counting to five or something. Just the kind of thing Blake had seen him do with Neal, a time or two.

"Okay," Burke said finally. "You do realize that I'm Jones' boss. So any order he gives you, I can countermand."

"Yes, sir."

"But you're not going to leave, are you?"

"No, sir. I—I gave my word that I wouldn't." Blake paused a moment before quietly adding, "And you wouldn't."

Agent Burke eyed him sharply. "What's that?"

"If the positions were reversed. You wouldn't leave."

'I'm not in the habit of disobeying direct orders from supervisors," Agent Burke shot back, neatly sidestepping the point.

Blake regarded him with a speculative air. "You've never disobeyed an order?"

"Oh, I didn't say _that_." Agent Burke's gaze was shrewd. "And nice job trying to change the subject to _my _behavior, but that's not what we're talking about here."

"Look, Agent Burke, can I be honest with you?" Blake looked him straight in the eye, letting a little nervousness show. It wasn't hard, given that this whole discussion nearly had him breaking out in hives. "If you insist that I leave, I guess I might have to. But Agent Jones . . . he won't be happy. And he strikes me as one of those really affable types, until you piss him off, and then you need to duck and run."

Agent Burke thought for a moment, before his expression shifted from impatient to impressed. "You've got him pegged, all right," he said, shaking his head like he was remembering something.

Blake hoped he'd get to hear that story sometime. He'd have to ask Agent Berrigan.

_Or Neal . . . hopefully._

"I thought so," Blake said. "So I'm asking you, Agent Burke, to please not make Agent Jones angry at me."

Agent Burke stared at him and Blake met his gaze steadily, wondering what he'd do if Peter really did order him to leave.

Fortunately, Blake didn't have to make that decision.

Because after a long moment, a ghost of a smile flitted across the senior agent's face, and Blake knew the combination of emotion and logic had won the argument.

"Fine, you can stay," Agent Burke muttered, sighing. "But I'm on the record as saying it's pointless."

"Yes sir," Blake acknowledged. He kept his face solemn.

Only when Peter got up to pace, turning away for the moment, did Blake allow himself a small (but triumphant) smile.

* * *

"Rita, if you want to go over the presentment on the Danielson case, let me know. I've got some time."

Rita Karstens, Assistant U.S. Attorney, looked up from the brief she'd been struggling with for the past forty-five minutes, appreciating the distraction her colleague was providing. Drew Talley was one of the recently hired attorneys in the office, and Rita already knew he was sharp, a superb addition to the staff. She just hoped he wouldn't be snapped up too quickly by one of the big white-shoe firms; it happened with so many of their best young lawyers, once they'd gained a little seasoning. "What are you doing here? I thought you were meeting with the FBI this afternoon."

Leaning languidly on the doorjamb, Drew nodded. "Supposed to. But they just called to cancel. Somebody got shot," he waved a hand in the air, "and the office is in an uproar."

Rita sat up with a start. "Jesus Christ. Who?" Before he could answer, she cut in, "Wait, you were meeting with White Collar, right?"

_White Collar agents don't get shot._

"Yeah," Talley confirmed. "Umm . . . it wasn't anybody I knew," he said, looking apologetic. Drew was too new, she realized. He hadn't had time to form any real relationships yet.

"Not Burke, I hope?" Rita knew Peter Burke well. She'd prosecuted several of his cases over the years, including a big one quite recently, and considered him a friend. A good friend.

He shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, I don't know."

Rita swore. She whipped open her desk drawer, muttering under her breath, and grabbed her cellphone out of her handbag. Yes, Peter's number was in there. She jabbed at the screen to dial him and swore again when she got Burke's voice mail. Taking a deep breath, she waited impatiently as Peter's calm, authoritative voice told her to leave a message.

"Peter, it's Rita Karstens. I heard someone got shot over there. It sure as hell better not be you." She paused before adding, "Call me as soon as you can," and then hung up.

"Rita, I am sorry," Drew said, eyeing her nervously. "I can—"

She held up a hand. "Don't worry about it. I'll find out."

Drew left, still muttering apologies, while she rummaged in another drawer, taking long moments this time to find an old, dog-eared FBI phone directory under a stack of crumpled receipts and random business cards. _I really need to do something about this drawer_, she thought, mind racing as she ran her finger down the alphabetical list of White Collar agents, looking for members of Peter's team that she knew. She found Clinton Jones and called the number. No answer. Diana Berrigan wasn't listed.

Finally she gave up and dialed the main office line.

"White Collar Unit, may I help you?"

"I hope so. This is Rita Karstens from the US Attorney's office. I understand one of your agents was injured. I was hoping you could give me details."

The woman on the other end—probably a secretary—didn't answer right away. Finally, she said, "I'm sorry, but I'm not at liberty to give out any information."

As an attorney, Rita knew all about HIPAA and privacy and legal obligations. But she'd never been more determined to convince someone to go against policy in her entire life.

"Look, I know. I'm a lawyer, for Christ's sake. But right now, I'm just a friend of Peter Burke's and I need to know if he's okay." She stopped and then added, "Please."

It wasn't hard to make it sound desperate. Since she was.

Another moment of silence on the other end. Rita could hear the faint chatter of many voices, indistinct but clearly audible in the background. She could only imagine the atmosphere of controlled chaos there right now.

The woman finally responded. "Agent Burke wasn't hurt."

Rita closed her eyes, breathing an involuntary sigh of relief. "Thank God. I appreciate your telling me. Do you know who was—"

"I—I'm afraid I can't say."

"Well, then, maybe you could transfer me to Agent Jones or Agent Berrigan."

"They're not here at the moment."

"I know all of them!" Rita fairly shouted, knowing even as she did so that she was browbeating a defenseless secretary who was just doing her job. One of the IT guys, walking by her office, heard her exclamation and paused to give her a curious look. She glared back at him and he walked away hastily. With an effort, she lowered her voice. "Look, please, I have to know."

True desperation must have made an impression, because the secretary lowered her voice and said, "One of our . . . consultants was shot."

Rita felt her eyes widen in horror. _Oh, God._

Peter's words echoed in her mind. _He's my consultant. And he does good work for us, Rita. _

She was pretty sure White Collar had only one _consultant_.

"Thank you," she said, fighting to keep her voice calm and instinctively feeling she had gotten all the information she could out of this woman. "Can you please put me through to the agent in charge?"

The secretary transferred her to Rick Graham, who, bless him, was there to pick up the phone and took just under a minute to tell her the whole unbelievable, infuriating story.

"The goddamned Canadians just let this—this killer—go?" she exploded. "What happened to interagency communication? Somebody needs to—"

"Don't worry, _somebody_ has already made our feelings known," Graham said tightly. "And will continue to do so."

"The hell with that. Not good enough. Somebody needs to put a boot up some Canadian ass."

"It's on the agenda."

"Where's Caffrey now?"

"At Kings County. I've heard it's not good, Rita. Peter's with him. I've got another agent on his way there. We don't know anything yet."

Rita's Outlook reminder dinged. _Damnit. _Departmental meeting and she was running it. She had to be there.

* * *

The hellishly long cab ride over, Elizabeth shoved cash at the driver, heedless of the change she was due, and jumped out at the hospital's ER entrance. She'd ordered Peter to call her with an update and he hadn't, so . . . that must be good news right?

Not really, she knew. No matter what promise Peter had made to her, if the news were bad, he'd be hesitant to tell her on the phone. The thought frightened her anew.

She walked as quickly as she could into the bedlam of the ER waiting room, winding her way around serious-looking people talking in groups or on cell phones as she searched for Peter. Somewhere a baby was wailing—loudly. A tall man, his weather-beaten face lined with despair, was trying to console a crying woman, holding her against his chest and talking to her, low and soothing; she caught snatches of it as she rushed by.

"—hope for the best," he was saying. "Please don't cry."

Elizabeth swallowed hard, not wanting to think about the parallels to her and Peter, worrying about Neal. She looked away and kept going, eyes roving around the room as she searched for her husband.

When she saw him, from perhaps fifteen yards away, her heart dropped.

He was in profile, seated and leaning forward, hunched over a bit. He was staring blankly at the floor. Even from this far away, she could see the tension in him, the worry, the fear. _Oh God._

She raced to stand in front of him. "Peter?"

Reverie broken, he looked up at her and she saw his relief. He managed a weak smile as he stood and opened his arms; she folded herself in. Elizabeth had always loved how nicely they fit together, despite the difference in height, and it had never felt better than right now. She rested her head on his chest for a second, reveling, as she always did, in the warmth and solidity of him. His arms were tight around her, more than normal, and she could practically feel the tension thrumming through the muscles as he held her close.

"Oh, it's good to see you, hon," he said roughly, resting his head on top of hers for a moment.

"You too," she said, as he released her and she pulled back to look into his eyes. "Any word?"

The smile, wan though it had been, was gone from his face. "I was about to call you. I just talked to the doctor. They're taking him into surgery. Someone will be out to take us to another waiting room."

Watching his face, Elizabeth sighed and shook her head. "It's almost . . . like it's not real, somehow."

"I know. I felt that way, too. Like it wasn't really happening," Peter said grimly. "Until I saw him."

"You did?"

"Only for a minute, before they took him away." Peter looked away. "He looked . . . God, El, he looked bad. He was so pale, he looked like he . . . ." Peter's voice faltered and she felt as if her heart were breaking at the sound of the helplessness there.

"Did you talk to him?"

"A little, but he couldn't hear." Peter's expression was bitter. "He was unconscious."

"Did the doctor say anything else?"

Peter nodded. "He was shot twice in the abdomen. He might have—he might not have made it to the hospital if not for Sara." Peter hesitated. "She kept pressure on the wound, but he's lost so much blood, El. He went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance."

"Oh, God." She couldn't help herself from gasping in horror. Automatically, Peter's hand found hers and she grabbed it tightly.

He leaned down and murmured into her ear. "You know how I told you not to come down here?"

Elizabeth nodded.

"Well, I was very, very wrong," he admitted, wrapping her smaller hand in his.

"Good thing I know when not to listen to you," she replied, smiling – and glad that she could glimpse a vestige of an answering smile on her husband's face. But it faded quickly.

"El, if he doesn't make it—"

His voice was anguished. As she watched him, watched him struggle to finish that sentence and fail, it was as if something in his face crumbled. And now she was the one reaching for him, holding him fiercely, trying desperately to transfer some measure of comfort, of strength to him just by virtue of simple body contact.

"Don't think about that Peter. _Don't_."

"Oh, hon, I don't want to. It's the last thing in the world I want to think about." She could feel a hitch in his breathing as his chest was pressed against hers. "And yet, part of me says maybe I need to. That I need to . . . prepare myself for the worst because . . . ."

_Because it will be unbearable, _she thought to herself when Peter didn't finish the thought.

"No," she said firmly. She let him go, but kept contact by sliding her hand down to take hold of his, and gazed into his eyes. "We don't think about the worst until . . . until we have to. Until there's no other option and if it comes, then we'll deal with it together. But right now we need to try to think positively. Promise me you'll try. That when you start thinking about the worst, that you . . . you don't let yourself."

It took a long moment before he answered; when he did, Peter's voice was low and hoarse with emotion. "Yeah. But I'm gonna need you to help with that."

"Well, that's a given," she said, smiling and pulling him down for a soft little kiss, to which Peter responded with a little more intensity than he normally would in public. With that taken care of, she indicated the chairs behind him. "Let's sit down til they get here."

She kept a tight grip on her husband's hand, encircling it with both of hers and caressing gently. "So . . . how did you find out?"

Elizabeth was almost afraid of what the answer would be, but she needed to know. Needed to know what Peter had been through, what the trajectory of events had been for him, because that was how it was with her and Peter. They shared everything.

And the worse the burden, the more it needed to be shared.

"We'd just arrested Halbridge—well, Price really."

Elizabeth nodded; Peter had explained his theory about the identity switch during one of their bicoastal phone conversations.

"We were doing a routine sweep of his limo when Jones found a wrapper from a chocolate bar in the back seat. The same brand the killer had had on him when he was taken into custody. It was easy to remember, because Neal had made a point of saying how he didn't like it. It was German. Bittersweet chocolate . . . ." he stopped and looked away, like he was recalling something.

Elizabeth watched him quietly, her heart aching.

A few seconds later, Peter resumed. "That was when I realized what we were dealing with. That, in all likelihood, the killer had recently been in that car. And the driver confirmed it. Of course, at the time, I was just worried about Sara." He shook his head.

"We called the office and found out that she'd already left—with Neal. We couldn't reach them, either of them. We kept calling and texting but . . . there was nothing."

A little knot of fear had formed in her stomach.

"I was afraid, then, that something bad had happened." Peter's voice dropped and she leaned in closer. "Then we turned on the police scanner."

The knot in Elizabeth's stomach twisted painfully and she felt sick.

Lost in the memory, Peter had a haunted look on his face. "We heard the dispatcher say there'd been a shooting at Sara's address. They don't identify the—the victims over the radio, but she said there was one dead and one wounded."

El closed her eyes, just for a second, unable to even fathom the enormity of terror Peter must have felt in that moment.

"I knew, then. Knew that one of them was dead and the other one probably close to it." He let out an ugly little sound that might have been a laugh, except it sounded so far from Peter's normal laugh that it nearly made her flinch. "So there I am, praying that Neal's okay and then, a second later, hating myself for even thinking it. Because that would mean that Sara was dead."

"So we drove there. Diana drove, as fast as she could, but it still took _fucking forever._" His voice was vicious. "And the whole time, I'm trying to come to grips with the fact that both of them might be gone. It was just . . . ." Peter wasn't looking at her, he was looking out, across the waiting room, reliving it all. His voice faltered, as if he couldn't come up with words to describe how horrific that ride had been.

"I can't imagine," she said, because, really, she couldn't. She could hear the quaver in her own voice.

Peter gave a little head shake, as if to bring himself back to reality and met her gaze again. "When we got close, we were stuck in traffic, so I jumped out of the car and ran the rest of the way. When I got there, I saw Sara. She was in shock, basically, and she had blood all over her. It was Neal's."

Elizabeth nodded, her heart in her throat as she pictured it in her mind.

"She told me what happened. That Black had shot Neal and she'd killed him. She called 911 and waited with Neal, kept pressure on the wound. Wounds."

Peter paused and she prompted gently, "Neal wasn't there, right?"

"No, he'd already been brought here. But—" Peter hesitated, "I saw where he'd been. The—the blood on the floor."

Elizabeth felt a little chill snake down her spine at the image. At the agony in her husband's voice.

"And then you—you came here?" she asked.

"Yeah, one of the NYPD officers drove me—her partner was with Neal. We waited until I finally got to talk to the doctor and she said he was going into surgery. When I asked her what his chances were, she said, _we're doing everything we can._"

She nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. Like Peter, El knew it wasn't an answer that inspired confidence. But she ignored that as she said stoutly, "Neal's strong, Peter. And young. And healthy. If anyone can make it through something like this, it's him."

The corners of his lips turned up in a small smile. "Think positive, right?"

"You're damn right," she shot back, which made him smile just a little bit more.

A young, enthusiastic-looking man appeared out of nowhere. Elizabeth saw Peter register him with a sort of resigned affection before he said, "El, this is Agent Blake. Agent Blake, this is my wife, Elizabeth."

Blake gave her one of those bone-crunching handshakes that always made her fight back a wince. "Mrs. Burke, it's nice to meet you. I'm sorry it has to be under these circumstances."

"Likewise," she said, dredging up a smile for him.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked eagerly.

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

Blake nodded and gave them both an expectant look, followed by an awkward smile. Then, with an _excuse me, _he drifted away, as if realizing he should give them a chance to talk.

Elizabeth watched him walk to the other side of the room, take out his phone, and make a call. "He's the probie you told me about?"

Peter nodded. "Jones sent him. He—he means well."

"Well, of course he does. And I'm just glad you weren't here alone," she said, almost to herself, but Peter heard her and shook his head.

"Yeah, well, while he's sitting here, doing nothing, he could be back at the office, working," he sighed.

"I doubt there's much work going on at the office right now."

"The world doesn't stop just because . . . because something bad happens," he insisted.

_Let's hope not_, Elizabeth thought, watching the worry that shaded his face.

Just then, a hospital staffer came out to the waiting area, heading straight for Peter. "Agent Burke, if you're ready, I'm going to take you to the surgical waiting area."

Peter nodded and got up. Elizabeth followed suit and suddenly Blake was there, too. The three of them followed the aide out.

* * *

The surgical waiting area was smaller and calmer, though still with the same population of anxious people talking in quiet tones. Blake was off in a corner, phone in hand, probably busying himself by calling and texting various FBI personnel with updates.

Elizabeth, returning from a trip to the restroom, noticed Peter had his phone out as well. "Who're you calling?"

"What? Oh. Rita Karstens," Peter said distractedly, thinking. "Just leaving her a message."

Elizabeth frowned and shook her head. "Don't know her. Does she work in your office?"

"No. Do you remember how Neal testified in court for the first time recently?"

She rolled her eyes. "Do I remember? Honey, you were a basket case."

"I was justifiably concerned," he corrected.

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to," she retorted, shrugging.

"Well, Rita was the prosecutor."

"Ah," El said, eyes lighting up as fragments of memory began to return. "She wasn't really on board with the idea, was she?"

Peter chuckled, "You could say that."

...

Putting Neal on the stand to make a case was something Peter worked hard to avoid. Usually it wasn't an issue—most defendants plea-bargained, anyway. For the few who didn't plead, the FBI usually able to marshal enough evidence without testimony from his CI. But in very rare cases, particularly when Neal had been undercover, it was necessary.

The Petrocelli prosecution was the first such case.

Neal had been thrilled at the mere suggestion that he'd get to testify in court, which wasn't surprising given his almost-pathological need for attention. But while Neal looked forward to it, Peter couldn't help worrying about the many ways this could go wrong. And Neal's obvious eagerness had done nothing to allay Peter's fears.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

* * *

_Peter called the US Attorney in charge of the case, Rita Karstens, whom Peter had known for years. Rita was no-nonsense and brilliant, and, once you got to know her, proved to have a wicked sense of humor. All of those qualities combined to make her one of Peter's favorite prosecutors ever. Naturally, she groaned—loudly—when Peter broached the topic of Neal appearing in court, but eventually he'd convinced her that his CI's testimony could be important in this particular case._

_He hadn't voiced any of his doubts, of course; Rita did all of that for him. After they'd gone back and forth a while, she finally acquiesced. _

_Though only a little._

"_All right, Peter. If you really think so, then your felon and I need to have a very long talk," she said, with her usual Rita-candor. "Then I'll decide whether he'll help more than hurt."_

_So Peter set up the prep session/audition (which he was secretly looking forward to a lot more than he should). He'd had already decided what his role in this meeting would be: make the introductions and step back to watch the sparks fly._

_While making sure he was far enough away not to get singed._

_Once, when he was younger and a little more reckless, Peter had done the whole "swimming with sharks" thing. Much to Elizabeth's horror, he'd donned wetsuit and scuba equipment, enjoying some time in an underwater cage while sharks prowled nearby. Sharks weren't known for their facial expressions, but you could definitely tell when they first smelled and sighted prey. Peter would never forget that look, that fluidity of movement, then the realization when they understood that they couldn't reach the prey—him._

_Rita had that same eager, hungry look as she swept through the doorway of the conference room where Peter and Neal awaited her. Like the sharks, she didn't know—yet—that getting to Neal Caffrey wouldn't be nearly as easy as she thought it would be._

_Or maybe she did know—and was just anticipating the challenge. One thing Peter had learned about Rita was that she did love a challenge._

_Rita could be something of a bulldozer—as Neal no doubt was about to find out. She was barely over five feet tall, but her outsized personality belied her petite stature. Striking to look at, Rita had short, ice blonde hair and steely blue eyes that even Peter had to admit were as intimidating as hell. He'd had never seen her look anything less than completely put together, never seen her take anything less than full command of any room the moment she entered it. She was smart, she was savvy, and there was a forcefulness to Rita, an intensity that could be downright unnerving. Rita was diamond-hard, with nary a soft edge to be found. _

_You didn't want to get between Rita and something she wanted. Because she would run you over without thinking twice._

"_Neal, this is Assistant U.S. Attorney Rita Karstens. Rita, this is my consultant, Neal Caffrey." _

_Neal gave Rita his most dazzling grin. Rita's answering smile was cool and measured, and it didn't reach her eyes. It was the kind of smile that, if you were paying attention, Peter thought, might scare you just a little._

_Unless you were Neal Caffrey—who, Peter knew, surely was paying attention, but who surely wasn't scared._

_The two of them shook hands, sizing each other up, then sat down across the table from one other. Peter took a seat next to Neal. This could have been interpreted as taking a side, but it wasn't._

_Peter just wanted to be able to see Rita's face._

"_So you're the criminal who's going to make my case for me," Rita barked without preamble, her tone challenging. She sat up straight in the chair, the fingers on her left hand drumming on the table as she stared at Neal appraisingly._

_Neal didn't rise to the bait, just met her penetrating gaze with a serene expression of his own as he said, "At your service. Give me the chance, and I'll help you nail Petrocelli to the wall."_

_She rolled her eyes. "Big talker, but then what else would you expect? Excuse me if I'm not overjoyed at the prospect of putting you in front of a jury. No offense, Caffrey, but you're a fricking felon."_

"_You know, Counselor," Neal said amiably, "I'm sensing a lot of pent-up emotion here. Please don't hold back on my account." He leaned forward then, lowering his voice to that whisper he had, like he was sharing a secret with a trusted confidante. "And if you want to use the F word, go right ahead. I am an adult."_

"_Okay. Shut the fuck up," she shot back._

_Peter, gaze darting back and forth from one to the other like a spectator at a tennis match, suppressed a smile, but Neal didn't. He laughed and grinned wide, nodding as he leaned back in his chair, looking satisfied, like someone who'd won a bet._

"_I appreciate your . . . frankness," he said, still smiling, but sideways at Peter, now. "And your reluctance. But you need me."_

_The hell of it was, he was right, Peter knew. _

_And Rita knew it, too. "I look at you in a courtroom like Mel Gibson looks at anger management class, Caffrey," she retorted. "Something I maybe need to do, but I sure as hell don't have to like doing it."_

_He winced. "Ouch. Witty analogy, but—Mel Gibson comparison? That shoe does not fit, I have to tell you."_

"_Caffrey, if we have to have a working relationship—and as much as I hate to admit it, we might—then things will proceed much more smoothly if you accept one key principle: I'm pretty much always right."_

"_Not to mention, incredibly self-deprecating," Neal said without missing a beat._

_Rita glared at him for a long moment, but then she shook her head and—very unexpectedly—laughed._

"_Do you know, I think we're going to get along very well," Neal said, pleased._

_And he was right, of course. Because, like Rita, Neal was right most of the time._

* * *

Rita Karstens was back in her office twenty-six minutes later, and she had a voicemail. It was Peter Burke, who'd dutifully called to tell her what she already knew: he was fine, but Neal Caffrey was not. Peter was at Kings County Hospital, and Neal was in surgery. Though his message was brief, the strain, the barely controlled anger, the worry in his voice made something twist in her gut that wouldn't let go.

Things were quiet in the office anyway. No more meetings today and she was more or less done with the brief, beyond some final editing. She texted her daughter Jenny to tell her that Mom would be late and to start dinner when she got home from band practice. Then Rita explained the situation to her assistant and cut out for the hospital.

Traffic was an utter disaster—hardly unusual for Manhattan at rush hour—and her mind wandered while she traveled at a pace that could be generously estimated at two blocks per minute.

_Damn buses, blocking the box. _

_Nobody ever tickets a bus driver, though. _

_Was there such a thing as negative miles per hour?_

The rush-hour tangle gave Rita plenty of time to think about her first, memorable meeting with Neal Caffrey. It hadn't been that long ago.

* * *

_When Peter Burke first called her to suggest that convicted bond forger Neal Caffrey testify in the Petrocelli case, Rita had hoped he was kidding. _

_Except he wasn't._

_She'd known all about Caffrey, all about the sweet deal he'd worked out with the FBI. Peter had talked about his consultant a few times, but Rita had never met him. It was probably inevitable that she and Caffrey would have crossed paths at some point, but now the agent wanted to insert him smack into the middle of her case. _

_Rita positively hated the idea. _

_As Peter extolled the virtues of Neal Caffrey, superwitness, Rita listened, impatiently tapping her pen on the desk. _

"_Peter, I understand you're trying to be helpful, but, really—I don't want your felon anywhere near my witness stand."_

_The agent's sigh was audible through the phone line. "I know, Rita, but I think we need him. I don't want Petrocelli walking on this for lack of evidence. You already told me he won't plead, and that's because he thinks he's got a shot in court. Neal can make sure he doesn't."_

"_A criminal is going to do that, huh?" Rita idly used her pen to flick bits of dust out of the crevices between the number buttons on her phone, wondering how long Peter was going to bend her ear about this._

"_Neal was inside the operation. And he can be pretty convincing when he wants to be."_

"_Yeah, and so can Clayton Ramsey when he's ripping apart a witness with a shady background like Caffrey." Ramsey was Petrocelli's hired gun, one of the top criminal defense attorneys in the state. Rita didn't like him, not even a little bit, but she had a healthy respect for the man and what he could do—specifically, the way he could cut a witness to ribbons without breaking a sweat. She'd seen it up close and personal more than once._

_Peter was undaunted. "It wouldn't be the first time we've put a CI with some issues on the stand to testify."_

"_A CI with some issues," she echoed, voice thick with disbelief. "That's rich. He's more than that, and you know it better than anyone, Peter. Caffrey's a professional liar. He's a liar with a record who's done hard time. He's a convicted felon. He's—"_

"_He's also my consultant," Peter cut in, accentuating the last two words just enough to make Rita sit up a little straighter in her chair. "And he does good work for us, Rita." _

_She could practically hear the sound of his teeth on edge. She wasn't imagining it. And, apparently, her insistence on referring to Caffrey as a felon was the reason why. _

_That was more than a little bit surprising. Rita had known Peter for years—he was one of the very first FBI agents she'd met upon being hired at Justice—and had considered him a friend for much of that time. Peter was as hard-nosed as you'd expect a veteran agent to be. And Caffrey __**was**__ a felon—no exaggeration there. Capturing him had been one of the highlights of Peter's career; she could remember like it was yesterday the elation in the agent's voice when he'd called to tell her the chase was over, at long last. To top it off, she'd heard through the grapevine that Caffrey had very recently done yet another stint in prison. So he wasn't even totally reformed._

_Somehow, despite all of that, now Peter was getting testy because she dared to refer to Caffrey as the criminal that he was. _

_Rita filed that one away for future thought. Then, she let Peter convince her to meet Caffrey so she could decide whether he was worth the risk._

_She agreed to it as much out of curiosity as anything. (Well, curiosity coupled with the once-in-a-lifetime chance to take the infamous Neal Caffrey down a peg. Because that kind of lure, she really couldn't resist.)_

_When she did meet Neal, a few days later, she'd expected the same kind of sensitivity she'd seen in Peter. But she got another surprise. Where Burke had bristled at the word 'felon,' Caffrey merely laughed. _

_Rita would never have expected that Burke would be more protective of Neal's reputation than Neal was._

_Then she'd done her best to get under Caffrey's skin (the way she'd unintentionally gotten under Peter's)._

* * *

_As the session progressed, Rita had explained that, if he testified, Neal could expect multiple questions on his criminal history. And he'd need to employ an abundance of caution to survive an encounter with a clever bastard like Ramsey. _

"_I understand," Neal answered. "I'm prepared for that." _

"_We would explore it on direct, of course," she told him. "We'd have to lay everything out. Blunt the impact."_

_Neal nodded once more, undisturbed._

"_Ramsey would hammer you on it, though," she added, waving a hand for emphasis. Neal's apparent carelessness on this point was disquieting. _

"_I'm sure he'll try." _

_She eyed him speculatively. "You don't seem concerned."_

_His smile was knowing, but carefully muted—several notches below the mega-watt one he'd greeted her with (the one she'd instantly decided she couldn't trust). "Then you're reading me right. No, I'm not overly concerned," Neal said._

_He must have sensed that she wasn't reassured, because he added, "I'm pretty good at thinking on my feet. And I do have some experience in getting people to believe me."_

"_This isn't a con, Neal," Peter interjected, probably sensing Rita's frustration and thinking he ought to say something (after remaining mostly silent throughout the proceedings)._

_Rita followed on, ignoring Peter's comment. "You get people to believe you, Neal? Like at your trial?" she demanded, in her best 'cross-examining a hostile witness' tone. "When a jury convicted you of bond forgery?"_

_Neal's gaze sharpened. "Actually, the jury never got the chance to hear from me at my trial. I didn't testify."_

"_That's one smart thing you did," she muttered. "Or, more accurately," she said, watching him shrewdly, "your attorney did. Kept you from adding perjury to your list of crimes. Which I'm sure took a superhuman effort."_

_Neal rolled his eyes, but wisely said nothing._

_Rita caught the eye-roll and shook her head. "You don't get it, do you?"_

"_You know," Neal said, looking wistful and glancing at Peter, "I don't have many regrets in life, but taking the Fifth at my trial is one of them."_

"_Your attorney convinced you," Rita stated. "Fortunately for you."_

"_Not so fortunate," Neal shot back with a touch of venom that seemingly took Peter aback and made him look up sharply. "I did four years."_

_Rita stared at him; she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "One count, Neal. You were convicted on one count of bond forgery. In case you've forgotten, you were indicted for a hell of a lot more than that. You could have gone down for a lot more, and a lot longer." _

_She shook her head. "You really think getting up there spinning some tall tale to the jury would have helped and not hurt?"_

"_Maybe the jury would have realized they were convicting an innocent man," Neal said, but he didn't sound like he really meant it—and now the makings of a smile played around his lips._

"_Oh, please," Rita said, and now she was the one rolling her eyes vigorously. "Agent Burke here had you dead to rights on the forgery count."_

"_Ah. You've done your research," Neal said, sounding impressed. His rancor—if that was what it had really been—had disappeared as quickly as it had come. _

"_Always," Rita said, displaying a sly smile. "Read the transcripts, reviewed the evidence. You didn't have a prayer on the bond forgery, Caffrey. Taking the stand and denying it would have only proved you a liar to the jury. Who knows what else they might have pinned on you at that point? Which is why your attorney didn't want you up there, no matter how much of a charmer you are."_

_Neal shrugged. Now he looked almost bored._

"_Honestly," she said, almost to herself, "I don't know why the hell you didn't plead out on the forgery—we might have dropped some of the other—" Rita stopped in the middle of her sentence, staring at Neal as he looked away._

"_Ah," she said, a note of triumph in her voice. "Your attorney tried to get you to plead, but you wouldn't. You refused. Tell me I'm wrong."_

_Neal met her eyes coolly. "The deal wasn't to my liking." Peter scoffed. _

"_What?" Neal said, affronted. He glanced at Peter. "It wasn't." _

_The agent waved a dismissive hand; Rita knew exactly what he meant. To someone like Neal, who'd been convinced he would walk, no deal in the world would have been sufficient. And, of course, he'd have had to plead to a lot more than one count to get any kind of deal . . . ._

"_Anyway," Rita said, taking control once more, "let's get back to today. Now, Neal, I get it. You're a con artist, and you're telling me that persuasion is your stock-in-trade. _I'm_ telling _you_ that things didn't go so well last time you were in a courtroom. So: Don't. Get. Cocky," she finished emphatically, spearing him with a piercing gaze._

"_Point taken," Neal said, conceding with a sigh. "But as you said, that was then, this is now. Plus," he added face brightening, "that time, Peter was testifying against me. Won't have to worry about the paragon of truth, justice, and the American way being on the wrong side this time around." _

_Neal shot a grin at Peter, who rolled his eyes and apparently decided to provide Rita a little moral support (not that she needed it)._

"_She's right, Neal. Don't get cocky. If you blow our case . . . ."_

"_I go back to prison?" Neal suggested. His grin had faded just a bit._

_Peter gave him a pointed look, clearly not liking the implication. Rita sensed there was more to this exchange than what was on the surface and wondered, curiously, what it was. "Did I say that?" Peter countered. "No. I'll just be extremely unhappy. You don't want that."_

_Rita embarked on a little role-playing, then, firing the kinds of questions at Neal that Ramsey would throw at him during cross examination. Questions about his criminal past, his record, his trustworthiness. Neal handled them all with perfect aplomb._

_Until the last one._

"_Now, Mr. Caffrey," Rita said, "you've stated that you were convicted of bond forgery and sentenced to four years."_

"_Yes, but—"_

"_No buts on that question, Neal," she corrected, stepping out of character for a moment. "No matter how many times it's asked. We'll have explored your record during direct examination. In fact, be very careful in general about trying to extend your answers on cross. Don't give Ramsey a chance to object and make you look belligerent." _

_Neal nodded obediently._

_Rita returned to the role-play. "And then you escaped, were recaptured, and sent back to prison."_

"_Yes." Neal's calm demeanor was undisturbed._

"_Other than that, though, you haven't served time for any other offenses?"_

"_No, I haven't."_

"_Well, that's strange, Mr. Caffrey. Or maybe it all blurs together when you've been locked up that many times," she said innocently before delivering the coup de grace. "Because according to federal penal records, you were sent back to prison very, very recently."_

_Neal's expression didn't change, but he froze, his eyes boring into hers._

"_Perhaps," Rita continued, relentless, "perhaps that was . . . some other Neal Caffrey?"_

_Neal had recovered enough to answer, albeit through nearly-gritted teeth. "No. I did spend two months in custody earlier this year." _

"_So when you said you hadn't served any additional time—that was a lie, wasn't it?" Rita let a little triumph bleed into her voice; Ramsey would do far worse. And she had to admit: catching a consummate smooth-talker like Caffrey in a lie (or mistake, whatever) did give her a moment of private exultation._

_Her jubilation began to fade almost immediately, though—as soon as she glanced over at Peter._

_The agent was frowning and his whole body had tensed, like he wanted to jump up and object to some nonexistent judge that Rita was badgering the witness. And Neal didn't look relaxed any more, either. He'd gone a few shades paler, and his eyes blazed with an intensity that was a stark contrast to his placidity earlier. Even though his expression was still composed, the change in his manner was startling._

_There was something more here—something beyond a mere lie or gaffe. She'd definitely struck a nerve. Not just with Neal, but with Peter as well. _

_What Rita didn't quite know was why._

_After a long moment, Neal resumed, sounding more like himself, except that the nonchalance was gone. Now he spoke with clipped precision; Rita could sense the effort he was expending to maintain control—whereas before it had been effortless. _

"_You asked whether I had served time for any other offenses." Neal carefully emphasized the last four words. "When I was recently taken back into custody, I wasn't charged with a crime."_

_Rita gave a mental nod of approval at his phrasing—'custody' sounded so much better than 'prison'—and his meticulousness in responding. As thrown as Neal clearly had been by the question, he was still paying very close attention, and that quick-thinking mind of his was still in high gear. All of that boded well._

"_So you were incarcerated for no reason?" Rita asked sarcastically. "Just because the FBI felt like it?"_

"_No," Neal said, and his voice dropped an octave. He cleared his throat. "My girlfriend was . . . was killed in an explosion, and I was a witness. Given that I was on work-release, there was . . . some confusion about how to proceed."_

_And with that, Rita officially stopped exulting. Jesus Christ. _

_She hadn't known any of that part, but she kept her face carefully blank and asked the obvious question, the one Ramsey would ask. "I see. So you were a suspect?"_

"_For a time," Neal responded, voice very even as his gaze flicked for an instant to Peter and then back to Rita's face. Rita glanced over at Peter, too. He looked like he wouldn't mind hitting someone._

_She hastily returned her attention to Neal, swallowing hard. The last thing she felt like doing was continuing this line of questioning. But, God knew, Clayton Ramsey would have no such scruples. _

_Just the opposite, in fact. He'd go for the throat._

"_Did you kill your girlfriend, Mr. Caffrey? Decide you wanted to be free to—"_

"_**No**__." Neal almost spat out the word. He was angry now, but that was fine. And he way he'd interrupted her was perfect. No innocent man in the world would have let her finish that sentence. _

"_Did you have anything at all to do with the explosion, Mr. Caffrey?"_

_Again his response was fierce. "No. No, I would never . . . ." His voice trailed off and he hesitated. When he continued, as hard as he tried to hide it, now you could hear a note of something in his voice that was very close to anguish. "I was . . . I was supposed to be on the plane with her when it . . . exploded."_

_Rita blinked. _Holy shit. _The circumstances of Caffrey's recent incarceration had been shrouded in mystery; she'd only found out by chance and even then, no one knew any details. As a result, with no hard facts to go on, Rita had gone with the simplest explanation. She'd just assumed Caffrey had had a moment of weakness and had gone on the run or something. That Peter had somehow smoothed things over with the Marshals and the DOJ, but not before tightening the leash: making sure Neal did a short spell back inside first, just to impress on him the importance of staying put._

_She'd never imagined anything like the tale Caffrey was now telling. Not that she doubted it even for a second. Who the hell would make up a story like that? _

_Not to mention, she didn't think even Neal Caffrey could lie that well. _

_And Rita could only imagine the kinds of strings Peter and his boss must have pulled to keep this thing quiet._

_Caffrey's expression was still undisturbed. But when Rita looked into his eyes, she glimpsed a hint of the pain there and realized that, essentially, she'd laid him open. She'd exposed a vulnerability that was none of her business, that Neal didn't want anyone to see. The human part of Rita felt like the world's biggest heel for doing this. But the prosecutor in her was grimly glad to get it out there now, rather than have it happen for the first time in front of a jury. _

_And now she understood a little better that protectiveness Peter had displayed on the phone earlier, bridling at her comments about Neal. Because, apparently, just a few months ago, Neal Caffrey had watched his girlfriend die—and then been thrown back in prison because no one knew what the hell else to do with him. _

_Uneasily, Rita looked over again at Peter. His face was filled with worry as he studied his consultant. She saw Neal meet his gaze and give a little nod, upon which Peter relaxed fractionally._

"_Do you—do you know who was responsible?" she finally managed. This was probably not the way questioning would proceed in court, but Rita couldn't help asking._

"Not yet," Neal said in a voice that was all the more frightening for its outward calm, because you could sense what raged just beneath the surface. Now the look in his eyes was dangerous. "But I will."

_After that, Rita was smart enough to let it lie. _

* * *

"That's awful," El said sympathetically. "Dragging all those horrible memories up again for Neal . . . ."

Peter sighed. "Yeah, Rita didn't know what she was getting into. But she was right: it's better to know the worst in advance. And things got better after that."

* * *

_When Rita moved back to safer topics, Neal's equanimity returned with surprising suddenness; his moods could be mercurial. _

_Peter observed quietly as the two of them spent another half hour addressing the substance of his potential testimony and rehearsing a few more responses before Rita declared the meeting over. She instigated a round of good-byes, and unceremoniously shooed Neal in the direction of the door._

_Already on his way out, Neal was reaching for the door knob when Rita spoke._

"_Neal," she said peremptorily. Peter was willing to bet that she'd planned it to happen exactly this way—letting Neal think the encounter was over and then springing something else on him when he wasn't expecting it. "One more thing." _

_Neal stopped on a dime, turned, and looked at her politely. "Yes?" _

"_That, uh . . . expression—" she flipped a hand in the air for emphasis, "you had on your face when I first came in . . . . What was that?" Rita inquired._

_For the first time since the session had started, Neal's face registered actual bewilderment. "My expression? I take it you're referring to my . . . smile?" He eyed her, smiling again, but warily now. "That was just my . . . meeting-someone-new smile."_

_Peter watched Neal trying to figure out where Rita was going with this (even as Peter tried to figure it out himself). He could almost see the wheels turning in Neal's head._

"_Oh, so that's what you call it," Rita countered. "You want to know what I call it?"_

"_I believe that's what you lawyers call a rhetorical question," Neal commented. He shot Peter a quick glance. "But, if you want an answer, I'm guessing that you'd call it . . . something a bit more negative."_

"_I call it pulling out a bazooka to kill a fly. Or dumping a whole box of Splenda into your cup of coffee." _

"_Well," Neal quipped, pretending to consider it, "I don't use Splenda, but—" _

_Rita gave him an impatient look. "But you know what it is."_

"_I do." Neal's gaze was filled with admiration. "And may I just say that you have quite the treasure trove of colorful analogies at your disposal, Counselor. Juries must love those." _

_Rita ignored the comment, refusing to be baited (or diverted). "It's called overkill, Neal. Though I sense you're not familiar with the concept, there is such a thing, believe it or not."_

_Very prudently, Neal remained silent—though now Peter could see a touch of amusement in his eyes._

"_If—if—I decide to put you on the stand," Rita continued, her tone forceful, "I don't want to see that smirk on your face at any time during the proceedings, understand? It's too much. Way too much. I'm not the only one who can see through it." She stopped to think for a moment. _

"_Now, there may be some women on the jury who appreciate it—hell, maybe some men, too, for all I know—but you're not auditioning for some cheesy reality dating show here. Remember that."_

"_Right. Yes. I understand." Neal nodded. He smiled wide. Then, as if suddenly realizing what he was doing, Neal widened his eyes in an exaggerated look of alarm. He flicked his gaze from Rita to Peter and back again, waited a beat, pressed his lips together, and then carefully schooled his face into an expression of deepest solemnity._

"_Is this better?"_

"_Good God, what an unbelievable smart-ass." Rita sighed. "Just . . . go."_

"_Going," Neal said agreeably, shooting Peter a last look and exiting with alacrity. "Such a pleasure to meet you, Counselor."_

_Still shaking her head, Rita began to gather up the papers she'd spread out on the table. Which meant (fortunately) that she didn't see Neal outside the door, staring right at Peter and waiting until the agent looked back at him through the glass wall. Neal wore a gleeful grin that was so big Peter thought his face might break. It made the smile Rita had just been complaining about look positively feeble by comparison. _

_When he caught Peter's eye, Neal nodded vigorously, pointed at Rita and mouthed three words: I love her._

_Peter had to bite back a groan, so Rita wouldn't hear. He gave Neal his sternest glare, but his consultant wasn't intimidated. Instead, he threw his head back, laughing in pure delight as he strolled away._

_Rita was right; he was an unbelievable smart ass. Not that that was any sort of news flash to Peter._

_At that moment, Rita looked up, but thank God, Neal had already turned away and Peter had gotten his own expression back to normal. They watched Neal go, observing as he stopped to chat with a youngish agent at the top of the stairs. Both men were laughing, the agent appearing to protest vigorously before finally taking out his wallet and handing Neal what looked like a twenty-dollar bill._

_Rita swiveled back to glance at Peter. "Do I want to know why money's changing hands out there?"_

"_What money?" Peter asked innocently. He'd already averted his gaze._

"_And here I thought FBI agents were trained to be keen observers of the world around them."_

"_Oh, we are. But we're also trained to employ discretion when circumstances call for it."_

_That got a real laugh out of her, before she turned serious._

"_Peter, look, I didn't know the backstory about why Caffrey ended up back in prison." Peter knew Rita well enough to realize that this wasn't an apology per se—but that she did regret forcing Neal to relive something that was obviously still quite painful. _

_He gave her a wry look. "I figured. Very few people know the details. Which is exactly how I wanted it." Peter appreciated that she didn't ask for any information, either, in spite of how curious he knew she must be. After a pause, he added, "It's okay, though. You're right: if Neal's gonna testify, he has to be prepared for anything. Obviously, you think Ramsey would ask about it."_

"If he knew, sure." Rita let out a long sigh. "He does his homework, too. But you did a hell of a job keeping things under wraps. I only know Neal went back in because I work at Justice. And even if Ramsey does find out . . . well, Neal handled it pretty well."

"_In fact," she mused, thinking out loud, "it might even help him with the jury."_

_Peter frowned with displeasure at the idea of Neal's recently-deceased girlfriend being used to score sympathy points in public. _

"_I know it's not pretty, but that's how we prosecutors think, Peter." When he shot her a forbidding look, she said quickly, "Take it easy. I'm sure as hell not gonna bring it up." _

_He nodded and then brought it back to the larger question. "So does that mean you're sold?" _

_It took her a few seconds to answer, which was unusual because Rita hardly ever hesitated. For a moment Peter really thought she was going to say no. _

"_I'm sold," she finally said. "To a point. I'll give him a shot. I just hope I don't regret it."_

_Peter glanced out through the glass again, watching Neal glide down the stairs, shrug out of his jacket, and sit down at his desk. "He'll be okay. He'll probably surprise you."_

"_In what way?"_

"_In how smooth—and earnest—he can be when he puts his mind to it," Peter told her. "And, as you saw, he doesn't get rattled. He doesn't need to hear me say it, but . . . he can be pretty damned impressive."_

_She nodded thoughtfully, checking her phone and slipping it into her briefcase. "As long as he's not too smooth, if you know what I mean."_

_Peter did know. "Yeah, Neal doesn't normally lack for self-assurance."_

"_I noticed," she said dryly. "And now that I've seen him up close, that's what worries me the most."_

"_I'll talk to him," he assured her. "You know, warn him again about being overconfident. Explain the importance of restraint." _

_Rita gave him a pitying look. "Yeah, well, good luck with _that_."_

_Less than an hour with Neal and she already had the man pegged, Peter thought admiringly. That was Rita for you._

"'_Clever as the devil and twice as pretty,'" Rita murmured, almost to herself._

"_What was that?"_

"_Oh nothing—just a line from a book my daughter was reading. One of those YA novels, you know, but not half bad. The lead character was a con artist and described as 'clever as the devil and twice as pretty.'"_

_Peter chuckled. "It kind of fits."_

_He walked her out to the elevator as they chatted about summer vacation plans and Rita's daughter's college search. Because Rita was in charge, the search was being conducted with all the precision and planning normally associated with a major military campaign. _

_Yep, that was Rita for you._

* * *

"I would love to have witnessed that," Elizabeth remarked after Peter had finished recounting the story.

"It is fun watching Neal work," Peter admitted. "He basically had Rita eating of his hand in no time, and she's no soft touch."

Elizabeth chuckled. "Well, Neal has a way."

"Yeah, he has a way, all right," Peter sighed. "And he knows it. So I did give him a mini-lecture on that very point."

* * *

_When Peter returned to the office after Rita's departure, Neal was no longer at his desk, but he reappeared shortly thereafter. Perhaps he'd been extracting more cash from some other unsuspecting coworker, Peter thought with a sigh. If so, at least Neal had had the decency to do it where Peter couldn't see. Or pretend not to see. Whatever._

"_Neal, got a minute?"_

"_For you, always," Neal said gravely._

_Peter just sighed. Neal beamed at him in return and followed him up the stairs. When Peter looked back over his shoulder, he realized that Neal was practically bouncing._

_Peter sighed again, loudly, and adding a head shake for good measure. He heard Neal chuckle quietly._

_Once inside Peter's office, with both of them seated across from one another, Neal studied him, a glint of undisguised excitement in his eyes. "Peter, is Rita married?"_

"_As if I would ever, ever, even consider answering that question," Peter groaned. He leaned back in his chair, addressing the words to the ceiling, rather than to Neal._

"_Because, like I said earlier, I think I might love her," Neal said earnestly. "You know, just a little bit."_

"_Please tell me you did not just say that. Because—"_

_Neal's smile was one of pure joy. "She gets me, Peter. Right away, she just . . . got me." _

_Peter, recognizing the telltale signs of Neal being thoroughly captivated, sighed one more time. _

"_And I love that. I always love that. You know—" here Neal paused to throw a meaningful look directly at Peter— "that's one of the secrets to __**our**__ success—how much you get me. Rita's the same. Also, just like you, she's not easily charmed, which I admire. I do appreciate a challenge."_

_Peter stared at him. "Yes, I'm aware. And by the way, if this is a prelude to you saying that you love me," he added, "then we need to end this discussion right now."_

"'_Love' is a pretty strong term, and not one I would apply in your case," Neal assured him, looking alarmed. "Let's just say 'respect.'"_

_At that, Peter had to chuckle. _

"_So," Neal said, face alight with anticipation, "enough with the small talk. Did I pass?"_

"_You did," Peter answered. "Rita's on board. Now, are you ready for this?"_

_Neal's triumphant smile had quickly given way to a pained look. "You really have to ask?"_

"_Yes, Neal. I do. This is serious."_

"_No one's more acutely aware of the consequences of what goes on in a courtroom than I am," Neal reminded him._

_Peter nodded. "True. And I know you can handle yourself."_

_Satisfaction spread across Neal's face. "Thank you."_

"_So I'm only going to give you one piece of advice."_

_Neal's expression shifted just a fraction, satisfaction fading a bit, but he waited patiently._

"_It's more or less what Rita said. Don't give them the full Neal."_

_Neal raised an eyebrow and looked a question at him. _

"_You know what I mean," Peter said, frowning._

"_I'm not sure I do." Neal frowned back._

"_Most people are a little . . . nervous when they testify in court. They at least show some evidence of being appropriately anxious in the presence of the judge, the jury, standing up in front of a bunch of people. Not to mention the whole 'I could go to jail if I lie' thing."_

_Neal pursed his lips, apparently taking this all in. Almost as if the very idea of being nervous about appearing in court was new to him. _

_Maybe because it was, Peter thought, sighing inwardly. Nervousness was not an emotion one normally associated with Neal. _

"_I know, because you're you, that you don't feel that," Peter continued. "But you might want to consider . . . I don't know . . . faking it." _

_The younger man chuckled. "Peter, I can be pretty convincing when I want to be. I think you know that."_

_Peter let out an exasperated sigh. "Like I said, this isn't a con, Neal. And the jury's going to know you're a criminal with a predisposition to lie. That's gonna make them harder to convince."_

_Neal narrowed his eyes and considered it. "You're saying I should fake being nervous to make myself more credible? Interesting strategy." He smiled. "And a touch devious, coming from you."_

_Peter ignored the last bit, because it _was_ kind of devious, but he didn't want to think too hard about that aspect. "It's a short trip from charming and confident to smug and arrogant. You look too calm, too slick, you look like a professional liar. That's just what we don't want."_

"_I'll take it under advisement," was the most Neal would allow, nodding thoughtfully._

_Peter couldn't help thinking: Clever as the devil, indeed._

* * *

Stuck in her car, cursing, Rita tried not to think of Neal as he must be right now. It hadn't taken long for her to see a little of what Peter saw in Neal. It hadn't taken long her to be impressed—wholly in spite of herself.

To distract herself from obsessing over Neal's current state, she thought of what he'd been like in the courtroom that day.

Of how frighteningly easy the bastard had made all of it look.

…

_The trial didn't happen right away. Because his client had gotten bail, Ramsey didn't hesitate to file numerous pre-trial motions (the standard, bordering-on-frivolous tactics), and then requested a continuance to delay the trial. Rita's caseload was heavy enough that she wasn't going to complain about a postponement. Her evidence wasn't going anywhere._

_As long as Caffrey didn't either escape or get himself thrown into the slammer again, that is. _

_So it took a while, but a few weeks later, it was showtime. Rita had been a prosecutor long enough to know just how apt that description was. A trial was a carefully orchestrated production, with everyone playing their pre-determined roles, repeating the lines they'd rehearsed, and hoping to impress the audience—the jury. The question that nagged at her was whether Neal could stay on script—and how good his improv skills would be under pressure._

_Because with Ramsey conducting the interrogation, Neal surely was going to need them._

_For his very first courtroom appearance (well, as a _government_ witness, anyway), Neal was wearing a suit-and-tie combo that, as the kids would say, killed. Nothing too flashy, nothing too eye-catching, but he looked . . . well, basically he looked like the perfect witness. Serious and upstanding and trustworthy. Well dressed, but not overdressed. Like he knew the occasion was important but he wasn't trying too hard._

_And handsome as hell, too. Which, Rita had to admit, didn't hurt._

_When she called him to the stand, Neal walked to the front of the courtroom, made immediate eye contact with the jury after he turned, swore his oath, and sat gracefully. She was pleased to see that he'd heeded her warning about that over-the-top smile of his—the expression on his face was perfectly sober. And Neal's manner as he answered her questions was affable, earnest, relaxed. Maybe a little too relaxed, Rita thought with a flicker of worry, but she pushed that thought out of her mind as she put Neal through his paces._

_Occasionally she'd switch from watching Neal to observing the jury watch Neal. Good litigators were attuned to the mood of the jury at all times. There had been a noticeable uptick, as if a jolt of electricity had shot through the room, when Neal took the stand. The jurors, who'd been collectively slumped over after some dry-as-toast testimony from a document expert, sat up straighter at the sight of Neal. Not surprising; Neal was the kind of person who could wake up a room just by walking into it. In fact, that was exactly why Rita had scheduled Neal after the expert. She was counting on him to refocus the jury, and she'd been right. _

_Every single juror was fully engaged from the moment Neal walked to the witness stand._

_The assembled citizens had reacted with predictable looks of surprise (and some disapproval) when Rita asked Neal to detail his criminal record. She quickly balanced that out with an exploration of Neal's successes as an FBI consultant. Neal, for his part, displayed what seemed to be an ideal mixture of remorse over his criminal past (regret that Rita suspected was completely manufactured but nonetheless appeared sincere to the untrained eye) and eagerness to talk about his work on the right side of the law. _

_As an officer of the court, Rita tried not to think about how closely Neal was skirting perjury when he talked oh-so-earnestly about seeing the error of his criminal ways. Neal was so damn good, though, that she and Peter Burke were probably the only two people in the room who would ever even think to doubt that Caffrey was speaking anything but the truth._

_And when he talked about his consulting job, Neal actually sounded almost . . . proud. That part, she found easier to believe. _

_Well, a little easier._

_Just like they'd discussed, at the end, she served up one last, open-ended softball of a question to Neal about his position at the FBI. This gave Neal a chance to talk a bit more about his role, the kinds of cases he worked on, and a few of the successes he'd contributed to. Again, just like they'd planned._

_Satisfied with the answer—it was right out of the script—Rita was about to move on to the specifics of Petrocelli's operation when Neal signaled her to wait, leaning forward a bit, every bit of his body language saying this was important, this meant something. _

"_You know, given my history, I didn't know if anyone could believe that I could change, that I could do the right thing," Neal said, and you could hear what sounded like genuine emotion in his voice. He looked away for a few seconds before continuing._

_Okay, this had definitely not been in the script. _

_Rita watched him warily. Neal responded with just the smallest of eyebrow raises and a half-smile which probably looked to the jury like he was embarrassed at revealing more than he'd meant to (but Rita knew was really a mini-apology aimed in her direction)._

_And Neal wasn't finished._

"_Fortunately for me, one person did believe it. Special Agent Burke"—here Neal paused to look straight at Peter—"took a chance on me. He's given me an opportunity to make up for what I've done, to make a real contribution. And that has meant the world to me."_

_Rita turned slightly, following Neal's gaze so she could look at Peter. Almost as one, the judge and jury did the same._

_Peter sat very still, aware, of course, that everyone was watching him. As he looked back at his consultant, the corners of Peter's mouth turned up at this unforeseen bit of praise, and glancing back at Neal, Rita saw him respond with a small, knowing smile of his own._

_From Rita's perspective, the whole scene was all very calculated—frighteningly so, if she were honest about it. But the jury appeared to be buying it. Neal had apparently heeded Peter's warning to dial things down, and, coupled with this little display of emotion, it was working. So far, overall, she thought, the jury liked Neal. Liking wasn't the same as believing, but it was often a prerequisite. _

_Satisfied, Rita shot a quick glance at Clayton Ramsey, who had also turned to stare at Peter. Ramsey had the look of someone who was eager to start his cross-examination. He turned back to Neal, eyeing him like prey. _

_Returning to her witness, Rita let the moment sink in before moving on to her next question. The rest of Neal's direct examination went as planned._

…

_Both Rita and Peter had been worried about the cross examination, of course. Neal could make virtually anyone like him. But that was a whole lot harder to pull off when the jury knew about your criminal record. And defense attorneys like Clayton Ramsey drove BMWs and had lavish second homes in the Hamptons in large part because of their ability to trip up witnesses. _

_From the beginning, Ramsey peppered Neal with the expected questions about his record, his past, anything to impeach him in the minds of the jurors. Neal parried them smoothly, with the perfect mix of humility and rueful regret. _

"_And you typically associate with criminals?" the attorney asked at one point._

_Neal's tone was earnest, the look on his face utterly innocent. "If we were all judged by our associations . . . well, we'd all be a bit tarnished, wouldn't we?"_

_Rita blinked, fighting to keep her expression neutral. Clayton Ramsey was well-known to defend some of the biggest mobsters in the city. Neal had done his research._

_The attorney had objected, the judge had ordered the non-responsive answer stricken from the record. But the damage was done, judging from the knowing looks on several jury members' faces. Neal had made his point._

_And it was only the start. By the end of the cross-examination that Ramsey had clearly thought was going to cinch things for his client, the man looked utterly harried. Even though she'd been dealing with Neal for only a short time, Rita could sympathize better than anyone (well, better than anyone except Peter, of course)._

_Rita's favorite part came when Ramsey used a standard litigator's trick of abruptly switching topics. He'd been forcing Neal to detail every charge that had been leveled against him. Rita was annoyed that the judge was giving Ramsey the leeway to engage in what she thought was repetition, but she didn't want to object unless she had to; Neal certainly didn't need the help. She'd been making a note about the next witness and waiting for Ramsey to ask Neal about the racketeering charge, the only one he hadn't listed yet. But Ramsey's next query turned out to be a complete non sequitur. _

"_How would you describe the man who caught you—Agent Peter Burke?"_

_Looking up sharply, Rita felt a quick flash of worry. Neal had opened himself up to this with his little speech about Peter earlier. Ramsey probably would have gone down this road anyway, but Neal had pretty much guaranteed it._

_If the sudden shift in questioning surprised him, though, Neal didn't show it. He really was a cool customer, one of the coolest Rita had ever encountered._

"_As I explained earlier, Agent Burke is my . . ." Neal paused for a beat, searching for a word and appearing not flummoxed but contemplative, "supervisor with the FBI."_

_Rita almost smiled. There were so many words Neal could have used to describe Peter; she wondered if he'd already anticipated where Ramsey was going with this._

_Ramsey raised an eyebrow and, in a bit of theatrics, turned to make sure the jury could see his skeptical expression. "Oh, I'd say he's a bit more than that," he observed. "I mean, based on what you've told us here today, Agent Burke sounds more like a . . . benefactor." Ramsey laid a heavy, scornful emphasis on the last word, making it sound like an epithet._

_Neal tilted his head, looking thoughtful and waiting for the attorney to finish. When he didn't, Neal said, "I'm sorry, is there . . . are you asking a question?" His tone was polite as he glanced over at the judge. With approval, Rita noticed that the jury was following suit._

_Judge Harmon sat up, apparently a little startled at suddenly being the focus of attention, and intoned, "He's got a point, Counselor. If you've got a question, ask it. Otherwise, save the commentary for your closing statement."_

"_Of course, Your Honor," Ramsey said, perfectly agreeable, but his smile was, to Rita's experienced eye, hollow, and she could hear the almost imperceptible edge in his voice. He was irritated that Neal had scored a point, however minor. _

_Watch out, Neal, Rita couldn't help thinking. Recognizing the telltale signs of Ramsey about to go in for the kill, she stared at Caffrey, trying to warn him with her gaze._

_Neal wasn't looking at her, though. Ramsey had taken two steps to stand right in front of him, coming close and leaning in. Trying to reassert control, no doubt. Neal met his gaze with complete calm, not flinching, not even blinking._

"_Do you get paid for your FBI servitude, Mr. Caffrey?"_

_Neal smiled faintly at Ramsey's portrayal of his position, but he didn't challenge it. "No." _

"_You don't like the word 'servitude,'" Ramsey remarked, his voice derisive. "But it fits. I mean, you don't do this out of the goodness of your heart, do you?"_

"_Well, as I explained earlier, my work is a condition of my release," Neal said, adding quickly, "But I find it very satisfying—surprisingly so."_

_Ramsey let out an unpleasant little laugh. "Surprising? I don't find it surprising that a criminal such as yourself would be far more _**satisfied **_roaming the streets of New York than you'd be pacing in your six-by-eight cell in supermax." _

"_Oh, I think that's a given," Neal agreed tranquilly. "But that wasn't what I meant. I was talking about how satisfying it is to do something good." He looked over at the jury, an almost sheepish expression on his face. "I know it sounds clichéd, but I never would have thought I'd get such a real sense of fulfillment from this work, from . . . helping people."_

"_Because you've spent your whole life cheating people," Ramsey observed in a caustic tone._

"_I have done some of that, yes," Neal allowed. "In the past. But I don't think I'm that person anymore."_

"_What a touching tale of redemption," Ramsey retorted sarcastically. "And what about Agent Burke? Does he buy this story?"_

_Rita could have objected, since this question should properly be addressed to Peter, but she held her tongue, trusting Neal to handle it._

_Neal smiled. "Well, you'd have to ask him. But I will say that one of the things I admire most about Agent Burke is how smart he is—and how difficult it is to pull anything over on him. More than anyone, he sees me for what I am."_

_Damn, Rita thought, admiring how adroitly Neal had used the question and answer to build Peter's credibility. _

_Neal really was every bit as good as Peter had assured her he would be._

"_Well, apparently, Agent Burke sees you for a man who has to wear an ankle bracelet twenty-four hours a day," Ramsey countered. "A man whose movements are highly restricted and constantly monitored. Because you can't be trusted not to run the first chance you get."_

"_Actually, it's standard procedure for someone in my situation to be limited, since I'm still serving my sentence," Neal observed. He sounded like he was trying to be merely helpful and Rita mentally applauded. "And the conditions of my work release were established by the Justice Department, not Agent Burke," _

_Ramsey shook his head. Though he gave no outward sign, Rita could well imagine how pissed he must be at how this was going. "Given your extensive criminal history, it sounds as if you'd be locked up—many times over—if not for Agent Burke."_

_Watching Neal intently, Rita saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes. That last comment of Ramsey's had triggered a reaction. All she could think was, _don't blow this now, Neal._ Don't challenge him. Just let it go._

"_That's probably accurate," Neal said after just the slightest hesitation. Rita let out a small sigh of relief._

"_So, would it also be accurate, Mr. Caffrey, to say that you owe Agent Burke quite a bit?"_

_Neal thought about it. "I suppose you could put it that way."_

"_And you don't want to go back to prison, do you, Mr. Caffrey?"_

"_I would prefer to serve the remainder of my sentence on work-release, yes."_

"_Who wouldn't? Which makes me wonder how far you'd go to stay out of prison," Ramsey mused. "Would you be willing to, oh, I don't know, lie in court to assist your patron, Agent Burke, in making a case against my client?"_

_The incredulous look on Neal's face was a sight to behold; anyone watching might have thought Ramsey had just asked Neal's opinion on the existence of extraterrestrials. "If you're implying that Agent Burke would ask me to lie on the stand, that's preposterous. Agent Burke is . . . a Boy Scout. He would no more ask me to lie in court than you w—" Neal stopped mid-word, as if realizing that was not the best analogy in the world before resuming, "than any upstanding officer of the law would."_

_Keeping a straight face after that delicate-but-devastating dig at Ramsey was one of the hardest things Rita had ever done. _

_And how brilliantly Neal had calibrated that answer—so that it was all about Peter's trustworthiness (and not his own). With Neal's background, it was easy to believe he might lie. But it was much harder to believe that Peter would ask him to, and thanks to Neal's response, that's what the jury would be focused on._

_The cross-examination went on like that for some time. Ramsey came at Neal hard. He came at him repeatedly. He came at him with everything he had._

_But Clayton Ramsey never laid a glove on him._

…_._

_When Neal's testimony concluded, the judge called for a recess. Rita and Peter waited in a tiny conference room for court to resume. Neal had excused himself, either to go to the restroom or to make a triumphant phone call to Mozzie (maybe both, Peter thought)._

"_So, is Caffrey available for consults?" Rita asked as she closed the door to give them some privacy. "As an expert witness, maybe? Hell, after that performance, I'd like to use him on all my cases."_

_Peter groaned. "I don't need that kind of stress in my life."_

"_Hey, you were the one who told me from the beginning there was nothing to worry about. That Neal could pull this off like a pro."_

"_Yeah, well, the reality of it is still pretty damn stressful. Neal can be . . . unpredictable."_

"_Like when he went off on that little tangent about you," Rita commented. "We didn't rehearse that, you know. That was Neal speaking off the cuff."_

"_Oh, just because the two of you didn't rehearse it does not mean it was off the cuff." Peter's voice was definitive._

_Rita eyed him thoughtfully, saying nothing._

"_Neal has an almost limitless capacity to pull stunts that are so crashingly, stupidly impulsive they'll make your head spin," Peter explained. "But, putting aside those moments of sheer insanity—which tend to involve something illegal—he's actually very careful about most of what he does. Neal likes to cultivate the appearance of spontaneity, but there's a lot more premeditation than he lets on."_

"_Well, premeditated or not, when Neal talked about you—that was a great moment," Rita noted. "The jury really liked it."_

_Peter gave a little shrug and said, his tone carefully light, "This is Neal we're talking about, though. Odds are, he doesn't really mean it."_

"_Agent Burke!" Rita sounded scandalized. "Are you telling me you don't buy this 'touching tale of redemption'?" They both laughed as she added, sober now, "You're being a little cynical, Peter."_

_A small smile was Peter's only response._

"_You're actually serious." Rita stared at him. "Look, Peter, I've been in enough courtrooms to know when a witness is lying. Or fudging. And Neal wasn't."_

_She paused before continuing. "Did he know what effect it would have on the jury? Absolutely. But that doesn't change the fact that he was speaking from the heart. Simple truth, Peter—more effective than any lie. And before you try to argue with me—do you remember what I told Neal that first day we met?"_

_The agent chuckled. "You told him you're always right."_

"_Bingo," she retorted. "And don't you forget it."_

….

_On the matter of Neal's courtroom usefulness, though, Peter was the one who'd been right. Rita's initial doubts had been proven unfounded, and she'd never been so happy to be wrong._

_Petrocelli went down on every count. The trial—featuring Neal's first appearance as a government witness—was a smashing success. _

* * *

Peter was staring off into space, lost in thought.

"In the end," Elizabeth said gently, putting her hand on his arm to draw his gaze back to her face, "you told me Neal did just fine in court. He helped you get a conviction. And you told me what he said about you. How appreciative he was."

"I also told you that I didn't know whether to believe that or not," he reminded her. He hadn't told Rita, but the truth was, he'd been surprisingly affected by that little speech of Neal's. The rush of pleasure he'd felt had been wholly unexpected.

Elizabeth just shook her head. "You said Rita believed it."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "You don't even know Rita."

"But you do, Peter. And you trust her. Which is good enough for me."

They exchanged a smile, but Peter thought, with a pang of regret, about how he'd wished he could ask Neal about what he'd said in court that day. Maybe approach it jokingly, try to see how Neal reacted.

Try to gauge how much of it Neal had really meant.

Peter had never done it, though. And now . . . now he might not ever get the chance.

_TBC . . . ._

_A/N—The line "clever as the devil and twice as pretty" is from the novel _White Cat _by Holly Black._

_Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing. With regard to this chapter – several of you have commented how much of a presence Neal is in this story, despite being out of commission. But I kind of missed him actually being there (not to mention Peter and Neal together) – hence the flashback this time around. For those of you growing impatient: remaining chapters will be back to the present day, I promise. And I'm sorry for the length of time since the last post. In the past, I've been one of those authors who keep readers waiting too long for that next chapter, and I really didn't want to be one of __**those**__ authors again. So I'm striving to do better this time around (but I had laptop battery issues to resolve before I could get this chapter up). Will try to keep on pace in the future. Finally, if you have time to leave a comment, I hope you will! I'm always insanely curious as to what resonated with you as a reader. All reviews are greatly appreciated and will be answered . . . . _


	10. A Thousand Regrets

**Not a Fan of the Bittersweet**

**Chapter 10**

**A Thousand Regrets**

"She raced for him, propelled by the strength of a thousand regrets."

— Lisi Harrison

…**.  
**

As the afternoon wore on, the waiting area had begun to resemble an FBI convention. Or what Elizabeth imagined an FBI convention would look like—if you added an overwhelming air of gloomy tension.

Some of the agents and other employees Elizabeth knew from trips to the office and the occasional Christmas party, which she'd sometimes been enlisted to help plan. From the looks of it, most of the staff of the White Collar unit was here—minus Reese Hughes, whom she knew was out of town. But as many of them as were present, they were slowly being outnumbered by people she didn't recognize—agents and personnel from other divisions, she realized, who were here to support Peter and sit vigil for Neal.

As dire as things were, she couldn't help but find that comforting, somehow. And she knew that Peter did, too.

"Oh, El. I just remembered Satch," Peter said, sitting up in alarm from where he'd been slumped in the chair. She'd had to almost forcibly drag her husband over to sit down; he'd embarked on another round of incessant pacing and it was making her crazy. "I was supposed to take care of him tonight. I—"

"It's okay," she told him, putting a hand on his arm. "I called Charlotte on my way here, she's handling it."

He smiled wanly at her, then pulled her close for a quick hug. "Why would I even worry? Of course my planner has all the bases covered."

"That's my job," she said, smiling back. "Fortunately she was home and happy to do it."

"She's a good friend."

"Yup," Elizabeth agreed, and then remembered her earlier conversation. "Say, did you know that Charlotte knows Neal?"

Peter squinted at her, frowning. Then he leaned back and looked heavenward. "Ohhhh," he said, the word degenerating into something approaching a groan. "Do I even want to know how that happened? He didn't pick her pocket, did he?"

"You know, you are incorrigible," she told him sternly.

He sighed. "It was a joke. Mostly."

"Sometimes it seems that you . . . always think the worst."

"I don't think the worst," he protested. "And I can't help the fact that I think like an FBI agent. Let's just say that, knowing Neal, I'm . . . prepared for the possibility of the worst."

"Well, he did _not_ pick her pocket. He met her while he was out walking Satch—"

"And struck up a conversation with her and was his usual charming self," Peter put in. "Maybe asked her out?"

She rolled her eyes. "They discussed her article. You know, the one she had published in _Mother Jones_?"

Peter's look of confusion said he knew nothing about said article.

"Peter, don't you remember? The one about twenty-first century feminism? She was so proud of it."

"Umm, I guess I recall hearing something . . ." Peter said vaguely.

Elizabeth threw him a look of mild disapproval; Peter looked sufficiently chastened at the proof that he'd tuned out their friend's dinner conversation. (Okay, true, Elizabeth hadn't read it, either, but at least she'd _known_ about it, whereas her dear husband was utterly oblivious.)

"She said Neal had some very thought-provoking comments on the topic."

"Oh, really," Peter said, his skepticism plain.

"Yes, really. According to Charlotte, Neal expounded quite thoughtfully about feminism in developing countries and . . . modern ideas about empowerment."

Peter simultaneously frowned and raised an eyebrow. It wasn't a good look for him, Elizabeth decided.

"Right, feminism. Okay." Peter paused for a moment to contemplate. "Let me guess. He claimed he'd read the article and then used her cues to make himself sound like an expert on the subject. Like any good con artist would."

"You sound awfully sure of yourself."

"Well, I _know_ him," Peter said, sounding resigned—and maybe just a little bit smug.

"Well, you're wrong, Agent Burke," Elizabeth said, throwing smug right back at him. "Yes, they talked about the article. He never said he'd read it. But the next time he ran into her, he actually _had_ read the piece and proved it by asking her all kinds of questions. She said she never gets feedback that detailed."

Peter looked thoughtful, then mildly suspicious. "Hmm. I wonder what his angle was."

"Peter!" she said, frustrated. "Does there always have to be an angle?"

He didn't say anything, just gave her with a wry look and a little shrug that said, _It's Neal, so, probably._

"Oh, fine," she shot back. "You refuse to accept that maybe he's just interested in this and wanted to do something nice. Maybe he was just curious. And he is! He's curious about all kinds of things."

"Oh, he's curious all right. Often about things he probably shouldn't be . . . but, yeah, he's curious. Does she know he's a felon?" Peter asked idly, pulling out his cell to check it as it buzzed.

She hesitated. "I have no idea. I didn't tell her and I doubt Neal did." Elizabeth thought for a moment and then added, "He did tell her he's not an agent, though."

"Oh?" Peter said, looking up from his phone, curiosity piqued now.

"Charlotte mentioned that he was the first agent she'd met, except for you, and he said, _I'm not an agent, I'm just a guy Peter puts up with._"

Peter managed a small laugh. "Okay, have to give him points for honesty there."

"And he said something about us."

"Us?" Peter asked, looking puzzled. "_'You-and-me'_ us?"

"Yes. He said something about the fact that we make people feel welcome. Even if they don't deserve it," Elizabeth said with just the slightest emphasis, watching Peter carefully.

That got to him. The look of confusion transformed into something softer and a little wistful. Peter sighed and looked down, smiling slightly. "A little self-deprecating for Neal."

"Not so much," she told him. "How many times do you think Neal's been welcome in somebody's home, honestly welcome? When he wasn't conning them?"

"Probably not too often," he admitted. "I don't think Neal's had an overabundance of stable relationships in his life. Hell, his best friend doesn't even _have_ a home. Or, at least, not a home in the traditional sense of the word anyway."

She smiled a little at that. "Speaking of—you didn't tell me how your conversation with Mozzie went."

"It didn't," Peter said, serious once more. "He didn't pick up; I had to leave a message."

Elizabeth pursed her lips. "That's not good."

"No," he agreed, voice somber.

* * *

As Rita Karstens entered the waiting room, two things struck her. The first was the size of the crowd. It pleased her to see that the FBI came out in strength for own of their own (even if he did happen to be a convicted felon).

The second was the sight of Peter. Her heart went out to him. He was surrounded by a cluster of people—mostly other agents, she realized—but his eyes were roving restlessly around the room. He looked like his thoughts were a million miles away.

Then he saw her and something sparked in him. Peter excused himself and met her not far from the door. Impulsively, she hugged him and he reciprocated.

"Rita, I didn't expect to see you here," he said, pulling back and scrutinizing her. "You got my message?"

She nodded. "Where Caffrey's concerned, I figured you could use all the help you could get." He smiled weakly and her voice softened. "How is he?"

Peter gave a grim, one-shouldered shrug. "He's in surgery. And that's all they'll say. He scrubbed at his face, looking both angry and defeated. "It's been hours with no word. It's—" he halted suddenly, glancing away.

Rita shook her head. "This is Caffrey we're talking about, Peter. You think a little thing like a gunshot wound is going to keep him down? Hell, no. And I'll tell you why. Because there is no way he's gonna miss the chance to drive you crazy for—what? Three more years?"

"I hope you're right."

"I'm always right, remember?" she shot back.

That got a smile out of him. "I remember."

Elizabeth had come to stand at his elbow and, belatedly, Peter remembered his manners. "Rita, this is my wife, Elizabeth. El, this is Rita Karstens, the prosecutor I told you about."

"It's so nice to meet you," Elizabeth said enthusiastically. "Peter was just telling me the story again of how Neal convinced you to let him testify in court."

"Oh," Rita groaned. "I was dead set against it at first."

"And then you met Neal," Elizabeth said with a sly smile.

"Well, he has a way," Rita replied.

She wasn't sure why that made Peter and Elizabeth look at each other and laugh.

* * *

Sara walked into the hotel suite, dropped her bag of hastily-gathered clothes and toiletries on the floor, and then stopped. She'd been focused on getting here, on having somewhere to _be_, since she couldn't stay at her apartment. Unlike her residence for the last few days, at least here she'd have a shower. And an actual bed, with a real mattress and everything.

But now that she'd made it this far, Sara felt lost somehow. Like she didn't know what came next or what she was supposed to do. Half of her wanted to make a stiff drink, imbibe until oblivion took over, and then fall into bed so she could pretend today had never happened. Pretend that, instead of fighting for his life, Neal Caffrey was at home plotting an art heist or forging a Picasso—whatever it was that someone like him normally did in their off hours.

She wondered how much alcohol it would take, though, to make her forget the agony on Neal's face, in his voice. How many drinks would be required to wipe away the memory of _all that blood . . . ._

So, yeah, she wanted to forget. Longed for it, actually. But there was also a side of her that seethed with nervous, angry energy, suddenly desperate to get out of this room (somehow, it was already making her feel claustrophobic), so she could roam the streets of New York City looking for trouble and hoping she'd find it. Because maybe then she could take out all of her frustration—all of her _fury_—on some bastard out there who deserved it.

_Forget? Fuck forgetting, _she thought viciously. _As if you could ever forget any of what happened today, how badly Neal was hurt. But you could hurt somebody else. God, that would feel good._

The thought of using her baton on someone was frighteningly appealing right now.

She must have been standing there too long, because Diana's concerned voice broke the silence. "Sara? You okay?"

Swearing mentally at herself—_get a grip, Sara, and put the crazy revenge fantasies to bed while you're at it_—she started to turn, but the agent was right beside her.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Diana looked dubious, but didn't challenge her statement. "Would you like me to stay for a while?"

Sara laughed, tried to convey how silly it was that a grown woman would need an FBI agent to stay with her because she was upset. Diana had driven her here—she'd already done more than she should have. "No, no. I'm good."

The agent didn't answer, and Sara asked, "Are you going to the hospital?"

Diana nodded. Yet she made no move to depart.

"Do you think—could I go with you?" The words came out in a rush. Sara hadn't planned to say them; she wasn't even sure where they'd come from.

She just knew that it was suddenly very, very important that she say them.

Diana looked at her, startled. "To the hospital? Um, of course. But you don't have to. I can call you when there's any news."

"No, I do have to go. I want to. I just—I need to wash up first."

"Sure, okay," Diana said. "I can wait."

Sara slipped off her shoes, grabbed her bag and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Glancing at the mirror, she was a little taken aback by how flat-out awful she looked—face pale, makeup smudged and nose red from crying. Well, that wasn't important. She just needed to do the bare minimum to make herself presentable. The first step was to strip off her clothes, balling up the top and skirt because she would never wear them again. She left them on the floor, to be dealt with later.

The second step was to remove all remaining traces of Neal's blood.

She reached for the faucet and hesitated, hand hovering in the air. No. It would take a few minutes longer, but she had to step into the shower and rinse off—from the neck down, at least.

When the water was hot, Sara stepped in, enjoying the feel of the warmth coursing over her skin for a moment. But there was no time to waste; Diana was waiting. She'd always rolled her eyes at those hotel shower caps, but today she was grateful for it; she didn't have time to wash her hair. Quickly, she began to scrub at her skin with some of the heavily scented hotel soap as steam rose around her. The water was hotter than it needed to be, strictly speaking, but maybe it would help her to feel cleaner, somehow.

Now that she was naked under the unforgiving bathroom light, Sara could see that there was blood on her knees, her legs, her stomach—splashed in more places than she'd realized. Getting it off took longer than she'd thought it would. She had to rub fiercely where it had dried and settled into the little cracks and fissures in her skin. Sara tried not to look down at the shower floor as she scoured herself and rinsed off; she really didn't need to see the blood swirling down the drain in her own personal little reenactment of the shower scene from _Psycho._

That task finished, she dried herself off, blotted her face with a washcloth, and quickly put on a fresh shirt and pants. She combed her hair, surveyed herself in the mirror, and sighed.

At least she wasn't a bloody mess anymore. Time to go.

Diana was examining her phone when Sara emerged from the bathroom.

"Any news?"

"No," Diana said. "Neal's still in surgery and there's no word yet."

Sara made her way to a chair and sat down to dig out a pair of more sensible shoes out of her bag. She watched Diana out of the corner of her eye, feeling suddenly awkward. "You—you're sure you don't mind if I come to the hospital?"

"Of course not; why would I?"

"I don't know, when I said I wanted to come, you looked . . . ." Sara's voice trailed off.

"Oh." Diana nodded. "I don't mind. I was just . . . surprised. I mean, it's pretty obvious how you feel about Caffrey."

Sara hesitated. She almost blurted out, _Why would you say that? _but stopped herself. Of course, it was obvious how she felt about Neal Caffrey—God knew, it was no secret. He was a criminal and he'd stolen from her (well, not directly, but the result was the same), and everyone knew that. So why was it that hearing Diana state something that had been an indisputable fact of life for years now sounded . . . well, not _wrong, _exactly, but not quite right, either.

_It's pretty obvious how you feel about Caffrey._

But was it still?

Sara didn't know. She only knew that right now she couldn't speak ill of Neal Caffrey. Not with his life hanging in the balance.

"Not that I hold that against you," Diana hastened to add when Sara didn't respond right away. "If I were in your position, I'm sure I'd feel the same way." At Sara's questioning look, she explained, "Peter told me the history. And that you testified at Neal's trial. What was that like, by the way?"

It didn't take long to answer that one. "Infuriating," Sara admitted. The image of Neal, smiling smugly at her after she got off the stand, was burned into her brain. He'd shrugged, then shaken his head at her, in a parody of sadness, as he mouthed, _Nice try. _

Really, she could have smacked the bastard, right then and there. It had taken every bit of restraint she had not to react. Which was good, because it would be kind of hard to contest an assault charge when said assault had been committed in front of a judge, numerous court personnel, and a bunch of FBI agents.

Diana smiled knowingly, like Neal had infuriated _her_ a time or two, as well. "He did get convicted, though."

"Yeah," Sara said, sighing. "He did. But . . . ."

"Ah," Diana said, understanding. "But not by you. Peter won, but _you_ lost."

"Exactly. In more ways than one. Do you know how much that Raphael is worth?"

They exchanged a smile.

"Not exactly, no. But I know it's worth enough that you're still thoroughly pissed. Enough that you're still determined to find it," Diana observed. "And enough," she added shrewdly, "that you can't figure out how the hell Peter signed on to this."

Sara nodded. "When Peter told me that Neal was working for the FBI, I was—" she stopped mid-sentence as Diana's phone beeped. The agent glanced down at it and smiled.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Sorry. Jones was texting me about Agent Blake."

_Blake. _Sara narrowed her eyes, thinking. She'd gotten to know most of the White Collar unit, having lived in their space for several days. It took a moment before she remembered. "Blake. Blake. Oh, I know. The wet-behind-the-ears one, right?"

"That's him. Jones and I sent him to the hospital first thing." Diana hesitated. "We were—well, we just wanted someone to be there with Peter, in case . . . just in case."

Sara saw the concern in her eyes and thought back to Peter, frozen in place as he stared at the pool of blood on her apartment floor.

"You were worried for Peter, too." she said.

Diana nodded, a bleak look on her face. "If Neal . . . if anything happened to him, it would hit Peter pretty hard. I'm sure you know that."

Sara nodded. She did know. Even if she didn't quite understand how they'd reached that point.

As if reading her mind, Diana remarked, "You were about to say something earlier, about your reaction when Peter told you about Neal. You were . . . surprised?"

"_Stunned_ would be more accurate," Sara admitted with a wry smile. "It seemed like such a recipe for disaster."

"It does, doesn't it?" Diana agreed. "And you weren't the only one who thought so. Except . . . it hasn't been." She was trying to think of how, exactly, to describe what Peter and Neal were, but before she could, Sara spoke.

"How much does Peter trust him, really?"

The phrasing made Diana smile. It was proof of how far Sara had come in just a few days. Before, Sara would have been asking _if_ Peter trusted Neal. Now, she was observant enough to already know the answer to that question and to move on to _how much_.

The agent pondered for a moment. "How much does Peter trust him? It varies. Not completely, but maybe . . . more than you'd think." Which, Diana realized, wasn't much of an answer.

Sara didn't call her on it, though. She looked thoughtful. "So Peter's afraid that Neal might still do something illegal?"

"For Neal, the temptation is always there," Diana acknowledged. "I sometimes think he's kind of . . . wired that way, you know? But I'd say, at the moment, that Peter's worried more that Neal might do something—not so much illegal, but impulsive."

Raising her eyebrows, Sara asked, "Aren't they pretty much the same thing?"

"Not always." Diana thought of that damned music box, hidden in her apartment. The box that meant everything to Neal because it held the key to solving Kate's murder. The box that Neal didn't even know was there, because Peter was too afraid of hurting Neal—and too afraid of what he might do with that knowledge.

_None of which could be shared with Sara, obviously._

"Neal's been under a lot of stress lately," Diana said delicately. She saw the look on Sara's face and cut her off before she said something dismissive or flippant that she'd regret. Sara probably thought stress for Neal Caffrey would mean running out of champagne or something. "He lost someone very close to him, very suddenly. She was . . . murdered."

Sara's eyes widened in horror. She thought back to their conversation on the rooftop: Neal gently probing, asking about her parents, her siblings. A fleeting feeling of shame washed over her as she realized she hadn't asked those questions of him.

It hadn't even occurred to her to wonder, let alone ask.

_Because you were thinking about yourself, as usual . . . ._

"And Neal," Diana continued, "well, he doesn't have many people in his life." She paused.

Diana wasn't prone to emotion or sentimentality. From the very beginning—and she'd been there on day one with Neal—Diana had always seen him with clear eyes. (Also, Jones had given her regular Neal - and _Peter-and-Neal - _ updates during the time she'd been away.) So she knew what Neal was, she knew how he operated, and she was instinctively disinclined to cut him any slack. Diana had no compunction about taking a firm hand with him—firmer even, than Peter, though she kept that thought to herself—and she'd been careful to make sure that Neal knew that. He'd tried to pull something over on her, once, and she'd discovered it and told him that if he ever tried again, he'd regret it.

He never tried again. He didn't try to charm her, or cajole her. Neal knew better than that. One thing about Neal: he certainly made his share of mistakes—and yet he was usually smart enough not to make the exact same mistake twice.

Diana didn't feel any sympathy for his situation either, since that was entirely of his own making—and since he had it ridiculously good, anyway. By rights, he should be looking at prison bars, not enjoying a breathtaking view of Manhattan every day.

But then she'd spent a night in a hotel room with Neal, where they'd ended up, quite uncharacteristically, baring their souls.

And even the practical, decidedly unsentimental heart of Diana Berrigan broke just a little when she thought of Neal, tempted by Garrett Fowler—with that bastard knowing there wasn't a chance in hell that Neal would be able to resist, because all he was offering was merely everything that Neal had ever wanted. Neal believing he was finally back in control of his life, that he had it all planned out—he'd have freedom and he'd have Kate—only to have that idyllic future torn away at the last moment in the cruelest, most devastating way possible.

_It should have been me on that plane, _he'd said, voice rough with emotion.

There was something achingly poignant about Neal in that moment as he sat there, looking forlorn and strangely small in his hotel bathrobe, the evidence of his past transgressions glowing green on his ankle—for once, exposed.

Along with the anguish he'd kept hidden under the surface.

Peter had been beside himself with worry over Neal, quietly terrified about his mental state after Neal had witnessed Kate's murder and then been abruptly thrown back in prison (despite Peter's best efforts to keep him out). Diana knew that, when it happened, Neal had tried to run toward the burning plane. That Peter had had to hold him back. And she knew, from the haunted look in Peter's eyes, that he didn't know if Neal had been trying, desperately, to save Kate, or to join her.

Diana had known about all of that. But it wasn't until she heard the quiet anguish in Neal's voice that night that she'd truly understood how vulnerable he really was. Neal didn't display his emotions, but that didn't mean that he was immune to having them. He was just so practiced at putting up a front that it was easy to forget that that was all it was: a mere façade, with all the grief and worry and fear bundled up behind it, where no one could see.

That night in the hotel room, she'd gotten a glimpse behind the façade. It had lasted only a few seconds before Neal's customary mask was back in place, but it still made her heart ache for him, for all that he'd lost.

Sara's words brought Diana out of her reverie. "About Neal . . . I—I didn't know," she said hesitantly.

"When it comes to Neal, most of the time, you don't," Diana told her with a sigh.

Their eyes met for a moment and then Sara looked away.

"It should have been me."

Her words, spoken in a low tone and coming out of nowhere, were so eerily reminiscent of Neal's, that night in that _other_ hotel room, that Diana looked up in surprise. Sara, staring into space, didn't notice.

"I'm the one he wanted to kill. _Me. _Not Neal. He wanted me. I'm the one he should have gone after—"

"But he didn't," Diana said, and now she really _was_ flashing back to that conversation with Neal. "You can't help that. You can't control what a—a killer does. You can only do what you did, and that's put him down."

Sara looked at her, then, eyes filled with doubt.

"I've been where you are," Diana explained, thinking automatically of Charlie and steeling herself against the sharp, familiar pain she still felt anytime that scabbed-over wound was touched. All these years later and it hadn't gone away.

It had taken a long time for her to accept that it never would.

"I know how it feels to see someone hurt and feel that guilt because it should have been you," Diana continued. "It's natural, but you have to get past it. It's a waste of time and energy, because nobody blames you. Neal wouldn't. I know him, and I know that he wouldn't."

"That's what he said," Sara admitted.

"You talked to him?" Diana hadn't known that.

"A little, before he . . . before he passed out."

Diana nodded. "Sure. Neal's practical—and smart. If Black _had_ gone after you, you both might be dead. Which, I'm sure, is why Neal deliberately drew attention to himself. You being armed is the reason that either of you had a chance, and he wanted to give you the time to use that."

"But I _didn't _use it," Sara retorted, and Diana could hear the anger, the frustration in her voice. "By the time I fired, Neal was—he was already hit."

Diana studied her for a few seconds before responding. "I heard you tell Jones that you've never been in a live fire situation. Just target practice."

"That's true, but—"

"No buts. Do you know how long it takes, the amount of training you need to feel comfortable firing your weapon under those conditions? Meanwhile, you're dealing with a professional, here, Sara. Don't forget that." Diana stood up. "You did the best you could, better than anyone could have expected."

Sara wasn't sure she quite believed it, even though she really wanted to try.

"At the risk of stating the obvious—or scaring the crap out of you—by rights, you should both be dead." Diana's voice was pragmatic—and chilling. "You know that, right?"

Swallowing hard, Sara didn't answer.

"But you're not. Instead, you're both alive, and that's because you came through. Now, you ready to go?" Diana asked.

Nodding assent, Sara grabbed her purse and the room key and followed Diana out the door.

* * *

"Maybe I should have left him in prison."

Peter was back, sitting next to Elizabeth once more. The sheer size of the crowd, combined with their various comings and goings, meant there was always someone for him to talk to—a fact for which Elizabeth was infinitely grateful. Yet it warmed her heart that Peter never stayed away from her side for too long, even though she'd assured him that he didn't need to. There were plenty of people for her to talk with, plenty of emails for her to read and respond to, plenty of things she could do while time ticked by. She didn't need Peter by her side.

But he kept coming back anyway. For the moment, the two of them were alone. And his topic of conversation was one she'd been expecting.

Peter's words had come out of the blue, his voice thick with emotion he couldn't quite conceal. He'd tacked on an awkward laugh at the end, as if to make it sound like he wasn't serious. But Elizabeth knew that, in his heart, he wasn't kidding. Not entirely.

She frowned and shook her head. "Honey, don't be ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous," he retorted. "Not completely, anyway. Being locked up is no picnic, but Neal came out relatively unscathed. I mean, he sure as hell never got shot while he was in there."

"But he was in _prison._ Cooped up in a tiny cell, and would have been for four more years . . . ." Her voice trailed off. She thought of Neal, who so often seemed larger than life, striding around New York as if he owned it. It was hard to imagine how he'd existed in a supermax prison cell for nearly four years. She said as much to Peter, hoping to distract him.

Peter nodded. "You might think. But Neal's nothing if not adaptable. It's probably his most developed skill. He's got that phenomenal ability to fit in anywhere, and prison was no exception, from what I can see. It's why he's so good at undercover work . . ." he stopped abruptly and looked away.

Elizabeth heard the guilt in his voice and her heart ached for him.

"Peter, you can't blame yourself for this."

He didn't answer, and she leaned forward in the chair, turning to her right so she could face him.

"Sweetie, look at me."

Reluctantly he turned and met her gaze. She didn't like what she saw in his eyes and impulsively grabbed his left hand in both of hers, gripping it tightly.

"You are not responsible for every bad thing that happens," she told him solemnly.

Peter let out a short, bitter laugh. "No. But this wasn't some random mugging, El. I sent Neal undercover—unknowingly—as a contract killer. Then I did it again—but with full knowledge the second time."

He heard his own words echo in his mind then, from after he'd sent Neal to meet with Halbridge.

_You're playing with guns. I'm not letting you back in there._

The memory of his belated, useless attempt to protect Neal made him wince.

"And that same man ends up shooting him. I set this whole thing in motion." Peter paused before adding, "And I _am_ responsible for Neal, in the end."

For the moment, Elizabeth let that lie, deciding she'd circle back to it later. Right now, she wanted Peter focused on specifics, and there were more questions she needed to ask to fill in the gaps of what had happened, anyway. "How did this man end up at Sara's apartment?"

"He was in Canadian custody. But they had no cause to hold him, so they let him go."

_Ah_. "And they didn't tell you," she supplied, as the pieces began to come together.

"No," Peter said, in a voice that promised that someone would be very sorry for that particular omission. "And I will get to the bottom of that, I assure you." The look in his eyes sent an icy chill down her spine.

Elizabeth sincerely hoped that no one in the FBI's New York office had played a role in the communication failure. Peter was slow to anger, as a rule, but on those rare occasions when he got there, he got his money's worth out of it. And nothing was more likely to trigger fury in Peter Burke than someone threatening the safety of his agents. Anyone on the receiving end of that fury would regret it.

Real anger was so rare for Peter that it always disturbed her, a little, to see it. It was so different from the gentle Peter that she loved. She tended to forget that her husband had an enormous capacity for rage under the right circumstance—mainly because she hardly ever saw that side of him.

But now she'd accept that fierceness gladly. Better that than the anguished guilt it had replaced.

"So someone screwed up," she said succinctly, counting on logic to win the day. Logic was always a good approach to take with Peter.

'Yes," he agreed. "Someone screwed up, all right."

"But that someone wasn't you."

He pursed his lips and gave her a knowing glance. "Not directly, no. But—"

"Did you even know Neal would be there?" she cut in, pre-empting the "but" where he'd inevitably blame himself.

"No," he admitted, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "After we arrested Halbridge . . . ." his voice faltered and he shook his head.

"What?"

"I keep thinking, now, about how easy it would have been to prevent . . . all of this. I keep thinking: if I'd just had Neal with me, at the takedown . . . ."

Elizabeth took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving his face. She'd wondered about that from the beginning, of course. One of her first thoughts (which she'd only _just_ managed to avoid blurting out to Peter on the phone) had been to wonder why Neal hadn't been with him. It terrified her, now, to think that the reason was something that would only compound her husband's guilt. Like, maybe, he'd told Neal he couldn't come. Or Neal had done something that annoyed Peter and he'd reacted in haste. _Maybe they'd had an argument . . . ._

She was afraid to ask the question of why Neal hadn't been there, afraid of what the answer would be. But Peter just sat there, looking pensive and volunteering nothing. Finally she ventured, hearing the timidity in her own voice, "Honey, I . . . I thought Neal liked to be there when you arrested someone."

"Oh, he loves it. Especially when he's been undercover," Peter answered quickly, a melancholy little smile on his face in spite of himself.

Elizabeth seized on that. "Okay, I see that smile. What are you thinking about?"

"When we arrested that doctor running the organ donor scheme. Right in the middle of the street. Neal was right next to me, proudly flashing that damn fake badge, you remember—the one from the cereal?"

"I remember it well," she said, smiling, too, at the recollection of Neal barging in on their breakfast and digging the toy badge out of the box. That amused look on his face when Peter had chuckled at the idea that Neal was bringing him a case, and Neal's cocky reply as he clipped the badge onto his pocket—_that's what us lawmen do. _

The memory was vivid because it was one of her favorite Neal moments. Taking things further than he probably should, but knowing that he was so charming no one could hold it against him. Gleeful about the whole idea and not even pretending to hide it, like a child who'd been told he was getting some reward he'd been dreaming about for the longest time.

That kind of exhilaration was infectious, even for Peter, who already loved his job more than just about anyone she knew. It was just another reason that Peter and Neal fit together so well.

"Given that, I'm . . . surprised he didn't want to be there," Elizabeth said carefully, praying as she did so that her assumption was correct.

Peter shook his head. "I know. I offered. I always do. Especially for Neal, it's important that he feels involved, particularly in the parts of the job that he actually likes. I mean, if I'm gonna make him do paperwork and stakeouts, it's only fair that he get to be there for the arrests, too. So I always ask him. Unless there's any chance it could be dangerous—"

Elizabeth bit her lip at the irony of that comment; from the frown on his face, Peter was aware of it too.

"But he didn't want to," Peter continued sadly after a small pause. "At the time, I couldn't understand why. It seemed like just the kind of thing he would have wanted to be there for." He lifted both hands in a helpless gesture. "Now I know why. Although he didn't say anything to me at the time, he must have already had the idea to help Sara. Because once we had Price in custody, Neal apparently offered her a ride home—she had all of her things at the office. He borrowed a car, drove her back to her place."

She didn't try to hide her surprise. "Well, you certainly couldn't have predicted _that_. I thought you said those two were constantly sniping at each other. When did they get so friendly? "

Peter snorted. "Good question. I told Neal to play nice and, for once, I guess he listened to me. His face fell. "And look where it got him."

Elizabeth wanted to swear in frustration. No matter what tactic she tried or how she tried to steer this conversation, Peter found a way unerringly, to turn it back to his own culpability.

She was no quitter, though. "Okay. So if I have this right, Neal was where you had no idea he would be. And that—that man was where you had no idea _he_ would be." She looked at him expectantly, waiting for his slight shrug of acknowledgment before continuing.

"And he hurt Neal. But as far you knew, the case was over. You couldn't have known, and you couldn't have been there. So tell me again how this is your fault?"

Peter sighed. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, hon."

"Stop appreciating it and start thinking logically," Elizabeth shot back, a little angry now. "And while you're at it, stop patronizing me," she muttered, lowering her voice to prevent a roomful of FBI agents from hearing their boss get chewed out by his wife.

He smiled at that, an apologetic smile. "Sorry," he said, meaning it. "But Neal _is_ my responsibility."

"And a hell of a responsibility he is, too," said a deep voice from behind them.

An instant later, Jones appeared, carrier full of coffee cups in hand. "Coffee, anyone?"

Elizabeth, already more keyed up than she wanted to be, declined, but Peter accepted gratefully, sipping with a look that said it tasted better than he'd hoped. A couple of other nearby agents relieved Jones of the rest of the cups.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," Jones added, easing himself into a seat across from them. Elizabeth shot him a swift, imploring look that Peter didn't see. Jones' answering glance told her he'd overheard enough to know exactly what he was interrupting.

She gave him a quick smile. "Not at all," she said and Peter nodded.

"I heard there's no news," Jones said.

"No, he's still in surgery," Peter said, then, more eagerly, "Everything's finished up at Sara's?"

"All done," Jones assured him. "The ME has the body, and NYPD will coordinate autopsy and ballistics—all the forensics—with us. I'll follow up to make sure on that."

"And Sara?"

"She's okay. Gave a preliminary statement and we got her out of there. She'll have to follow up with them later."

"Any complications?" Peter asked.

Jones shook his head. "Nah, don't think so. It's a clean shoot, Peter. I don't see NYPD harassing her on this. Her account's held up so far, and it matches the evidence."

"Good," Peter said. "Where is she now?"

"Diana's with her. She took her to a hotel; she's gonna stay there until she can get back into her apartment."

With an anxious expression, Peter studied him. "How'd she seem?"

"Pretty shaken up," Jones admitted. "Said she never shot anybody before, never even discharged her weapon outside of the firing range."

"Her first time," Peter said darkly. "She made it count."

"Yeah," Jones agreed. "If she hadn't been carrying, they'd both be dead."

Elizabeth shivered involuntarily at the matter-of-fact way he'd said it.

_Stop it_, she thought. _They're not dead. Sara's alive and so is Neal. And he's going to stay that way._

"Um, does anybody need anything?"

Agent Blake, dear thing, had wandered up yet again. The kid had a boundless supply of nervous energy, which he apparently had to burn off by being in constant motion. Elizabeth wondered how on earth he managed to get through an entire day of sitting at a desk. She'd have to ask Peter about that.

"No thanks, Blake," Peter said kindly, raising the cup Jones had just handed him. "I'm good."

"Right. Well, then, Mrs. Burke, would you like some coffee, or . . . . "

"No, Agent Blake," she answered, smiling at him. "I'm fine, but thank you for asking."

"Nice to see you, Blake," Jones said, giving him a meaningful nod.

"Right, y—yes," the younger agent stammered. "Okay, well, if you need anything, just call," He slipped away again.

Peter watched him go, a fond expression on his face. "I understand you're responsible for Agent Blake's presence," he said to Jones.

"Ah, you know," Jones replied, voice deliberately casual. "Poor kid was going cross-eyed, staring at paperwork all day. Figured I'd give him a break."

"Mmmm," Peter said, a glimmer of a smile playing around his lips. "Thoughtful of you."

"I've been there," Jones continued. "You look at that stuff too long, it gets to you."

"Yeah, it can get pretty rough," Peter agreed. He paused, cleared his throat and said, "Thanks."

"Any time, Peter," the younger agent said, clapping him on the shoulder as he got up.

Elizabeth, listening in, realized the conversation wasn't about Agent Blake anymore—if indeed it ever had been.

When Jones left, she excused herself with a _be right back_ to Peter and followed Jones unobtrusively, waiting until they were far enough away that her husband couldn't hear.

"Excuse me, Clinton?" she said, laying a hand on his arm. He turned immediately.

"Mrs. Burke." His eyes were warm and concerned. "You need anything?"

"I wanted to thank you. You, um, you sent Agent Blake for Peter, didn't you?"

He smiled at her. "Yeah. I did. Well, Diana, too. We thought it would be a good idea."

"Thank you."

"No problem. We were tied up at the scene. I was worried that Peter . . . if anything happened . . . I just didn't want him to be on his own."

"I appreciate that." Elizabeth looked back over to Peter, who was talking earnestly with an agent she didn't recognize and—she was happy to see—smiling a little. "This is so hard for him." She realized she was wringing her hands and deliberately brought them to her sides to still them. "Beyond worrying about Neal . . . he blames himself."

"Yeah," Jones said, cutting a quick, sideways glance at Peter. "I kinda heard that part."

The words came out in a rush. "If Neal—if anything happens to Neal, it's going to devastate him. He'll—"

"Mrs. Burke." He took her hands in his, wanting to provide some measure of comfort. "Let's not think worst-case scenarios right now, okay? Neal is a lot tougher than he looks. And Peter will get through this. He's got a lot of people to make sure he does, you being the most important."

She managed a tremulous smile at how he seemed to know just what to say to make her feel better. And how he was unknowingly echoing her own words to Peter earlier - about trying to stay positive.

"And you've got to remember," he added pragmatically, "that's Peter. That's who he is." He waved a hand that encompassed the crowd around them. "All these people? A lot of them know Neal and they're worried about him, but they're here for Peter, too. Because he's the kind of guy who worries constantly about the people he works with. And everybody knows that. He wouldn't be Peter if he didn't care."

She nodded. "I know. I just worry."

Jones looked over at Peter then, affection written all over his face. "He'll get through this." A moment later, he added, "We all will."

"Starting with Neal," she said resolutely.

"Absolutely, starting with Neal," he agreed.

Jones' phone rang. He glanced at her; she gestured to him not to hold back on her account and he answered it.

"Hey, Lauren. You never call any more." He smiled grimly, listening. "Bad news travels fast, huh? No, Neal's in surgery, there's no update yet. . . ."

_TBC . . . ._

_Thanks for the feedback—all of it is treasured! _


	11. The Color of the Crystal

**Not a Fan of the Bittersweet**

**Chapter 11**

**The Color of the Crystal**

"_In this treacherous world  
Nothing is the truth nor a lie.  
Everything depends on the color  
Of the crystal through which one sees it"  
_― Pedro Calderón de la Barca

….

The news had traveled like wildfire around the office, reaching her ears in no time.

"_Hey, did you hear about Neal Caffrey? You know, in White Collar."_

Agent Kimberly Rice, though working out of Missing Persons and not White Collar, definitely knew about Neal Caffrey. Oh, yes.

But she hadn't heard anything about him recently. She didn't want to. She was careful to keep her distance from anything even tangentially related to the White Collar unit, Neal Caffrey, and most of all, Peter Burke.

So her first assumption was, of course, that Neal Caffrey had run, because, really, wasn't that inevitable at some point? _Oh, really? Like he ran when Lindsay Gless' life was at stake? _an accusing voice said inside her head. Because, the truth was, Caffrey had done nothing of the sort during that investigation—though he could have, quite easily. Kimberly Rice knew it better than anyone; she was the one who'd removed his anklet, after all.

_And then had allowed him to be abducted by a man who wanted him dead._

Hastily, she pushed that thought aside.

Well, all right, then. Maybe Caffrey hadn't run. If not, then he'd probably been arrested. _Or seen with a fake Monet or something._

But no, she'd quickly learned. Neal Caffrey had taken a bullet and no one knew his condition, but being shot was never good for anyone's health

She was in her car and on the way to the hospital before she was even sure why.

* * *

Really, Sara thought as she followed Diana Berrigan down the hospital corridor, she should have been immune to it all. Immune, impervious, invulnerable—pick your adjective. She was on to him, completely and totally. She couldn't be hoodwinked or fast-talked, especially not by Neal Caffrey.

And yet, she'd realized during this case—and especially on that rooftop—that when Neal turned on the charm, when he brought the full force of his personality to bear, the effect was powerful. Like looking into the sun. You knew it was dangerous, you knew you should turn away, but when it came to Neal, that was a lot easier said than done.

He was a criminal—and an utterly unrepentant one, at that. He used people and lied to them, had done it without hesitation over and over again. He had personally cost her millions of dollars. He'd gotten away with countless crimes, and no doubt still would be doing so—if not for the tireless efforts of Peter Burke.

All these things should combine to make her despise Neal Caffrey, and indeed she had. That day outside Mondebello, all her latent anger about the Raphael had bubbled to the surface. It wasn't that she'd forgotten about the theft in the years since it had happened—she had perfect recall for every recovery she _didn't_ make—but her feelings had faded a bit, in the ensuing years.

Seeing him that day, though, had brought it all back in a rush. She took such defeats personally; it was a big part of her success. His smug arrogance and unruffled denials had only made it worse. That day, she could practically feel her blood boiling with the need to wipe that smirk off his face, to best him, to . . . take him down, somehow.

And yet, here she was.

She walked in, following Diana, and stopped in surprise.

It looked like the entire White Collar unit had relocated to the Kings County Hospital waiting room.

Sara had spent enough time—God, far _too much_ time—at the FBI field office the past few days. She'd gotten to know virtually everyone who worked there. If not by name, she knew their faces. And now, looking around the room and scanning her memory, she tried and failed to think of someone who _wasn't_ present in the waiting room. She mentally ticked off the agents, the probies, the administrative staff, the clerks. Jesus, it seemed like just about every one of them was here.

Plus a lot of people she didn't know, but whose mien screamed "FBI" nonetheless.

Apparently, Neal Caffrey was a lot more popular than she'd given him credit for.

She had a sudden flash of the lousy carnations Sterling Bosch had sent for her "funeral." Why did she have the feeling that if, God forbid, Neal died, the funeral home would be packed?

"Sara!" Peter was suddenly right there. They looked at each other and then, in the same moment, came together in a quick, awkward embrace. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"I wanted to come," she said simply as they both stepped back.

Peter gave her a warm smile that plainly said he knew just how big a step that was for her. "I appreciate that. You okay?"

She nodded as he led her to a chair and sat next to her. "Fine. I heard there's no word on Neal."

"Not yet."

They talked for a few minutes, the conversation mainly consisting of Peter quizzing her about her interactions with NYPD, about where she was staying, about whether she was really okay. She tried hard to reassure him. Peter was worried enough about Neal; he didn't need to be concerned about her, too.

Then, from near the door, a deep voice boomed out, "_Peter Burke!_" Peter looked over and smiled a little, rising to his feet. "Excuse me, Sara."

"Of course," she said, smiling back. Then Elizabeth Burke was there, hugging her fiercely, taking her hand, thanking her, and asking her pretty much the same questions Peter had.

Sara felt a little awkward at first. She didn't really belong here. She barely knew these people, and they were here for a very different reason than she was, weren't they? But the awkward-outsider feeling faded quickly, as virtually everyone in the room from the White Collar unit stopped by to express concern, to thank her, to talk with her. And so did plenty of other people she didn't know, but who somehow knew who _she_ was, and who thanked her for her defense of Neal. As time passed, she realized that someone always seemed to be by her side, almost as if they'd planned it. Like there was some kind of quiet conspiracy to make sure she was never alone for too long. One of the administrative assistants, Julie, asked if she wanted anything. She said no; it was probably the third time someone had solicitously asked her.

Invariably, too, they talked about Neal, who was the reason they were all here. About how smart he was, how he livened up the office, how he fit in. She was quiet during those times, just listening.

And thinking.

Maybe forty-five minutes later, an older man with an obvious air of authority came into the room. He wore a trench coat and wheeled a carry-on suitcase behind him. Something in the atmosphere changed with his entrance; clearly everyone knew and respected him.

It hit Sara suddenly, as the man approached. _Peter's boss_, she realized. Hughes. He had been out of town during her forced stay at the FBI and was probably one of the only people who worked in the office that she hadn't met.

Hughes acknowledged his agents as they nodded in recognition, but he made a beeline directly for Peter. The agent rose to greet him—she noted a look of surprise on Peter's face; apparently he hadn't expected his boss to show up—and they spoke in low tones as Hughes' frown deepened, probably at the news that there was no update on Neal's condition. Once in the course of the conversation they looked over at her and she looked away quickly. She knew Peter must be explaining who she was and her role in all this.

Sara found herself staring across the room, at nothing. Well, not nothing. There was an ancient-looking water cooler there. The base was a faded, ugly red color, and it brought to mind the blood, Neal's blood. She shuddered involuntarily at the memory. She'd really had to scrub to get it out of her nails, her cuticles . . . it had soaked into her pores and—

"Excuse me?"

She looked up, startled.

A beautiful, elegantly dressed older woman was standing in front of her—and unlike most of the people Sara had met thus far, this woman was clearly _not _FBI. "Hello, my name is June Ellington. Neal lives in my home. I wanted to introduce myself. Do you mind if I sit?"

"Oh, of course not. Please do. I'm Sara Ellis." _So this was the woman Neal had conned into letting him live in her house_.

"Yes, I know," the woman said. "Ms. Ellis—"

"Please, call me Sara," she blurted out.

"Yes. Sara. I'm so glad to meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances. Neal told me a bit about you, recently."

Now _there _was a conversation Sara would dearly love to have heard.

A little smile played around the corners of June's lips, almost as if she knew just what Sara had been thinking, then faded as she asked, "How are you?"

_How am I? Exhausted and freaked-out and shaky and wishing I could stop thinking about the sight of Neal's blood . . ._

"Hanging in there," Sara finally said.

June looked worried. More than that, she looked like she knew everything Sara had been thinking—and not said. "I heard what happened, and what you did. What a horrible experience. I'm just so glad you were there for Neal."

She smiled, knew it was wan. "I'm glad, too."

"But you feel . . . guilty?" June knew that too, apparently.

Sara shrugged, looked heavenward. "If I'd been quicker—"

"How many rounds did he get off before you shot him?"

"Two."

The older woman's eyes widened in surprise. "Really?"

"Yes," Sara said, stopping for a moment to think back, once again, to the moment that had been running in a near-constant loop in her head for the past few hours. _It had been two, right? Two shots. Yes._

"Then you were pretty damned quick."

She shook her head. "It took me a few seconds too long."

"You're talking about a hired killer, somebody trained to squeeze off multiple rounds in the shortest time possible." June responded. "To be quicker than a professional—that would be asking the impossible. I'd say very few people could have done any better than you did." She waved a graceful hand, indicating their surroundings. "And I bet any of these agents would second that."

Sara smiled, thinking back to what Diana had told her, back at the hotel. "Thanks. I appreciate that."

June smiled back. "Neal means a great deal to those of us who know him."

"Yeah, I've noticed," she answered in a neutral voice, eyes automatically flicking around the room.

"That . . . surprises you," June said. It wasn't a question.

Sara didn't answer right away. Then she opened her mouth and closed it again. No. Best to say nothing. This wasn't the time or the place to share her firmly held, unvarnished opinion of Neal Caffrey.

(Especially since she wasn't sure it was such a firmly held opinion any more, anyway.)

But the woman wouldn't stop scrutinizing her, waiting patiently for an answer. So, finally, Sara gave in. "You want to know the truth?"

"Please," June replied gravely.

"I—I probably shouldn't say anything."

"On the contrary, my dear. I'm very interested in what you have to say."

"Okay, she said bluntly, deciding to take the plunge. "I don't quite—get it. I just don't."

June gave an understanding nod, and her eyes were warm and almost pitying as she looked at Sara. "That's because, perhaps, your eyes are closed." Her tone wasn't condescending or belligerent or insulting in any way - just matter-of-fact.

"No," Sara protested. "Oh, no. I see that he's smart and handsome and incredibly charming when he wants to be. And it's easy to believe whatever he tells you, but—"

"All true, but that's only scratching the surface of what he is," June remarked. "You know what Neal really is? He's complicated, but you probably can't see it because your perspective is too narrow. You think you know what Neal is. But it's like looking a corner of a tapestry and thinking you're seeing the whole thing, when really it's just a portion. And particularly when the tapestry has many shades of gray and your eyes are trained to see only black and white."

Sara watched her, not speaking.

"Forgive me if I'm being too forward. The last thing you deserve right now is someone judging you. Also, I'm not denying what _you_ see of Neal—not at all," June added hastily, smiling. "Based on what Neal told me—and what I know of him—it's easy to understand why you feel the way you do. I'm just suggesting that . . . there's more to him than what you're capable of seeing, right now.

Sara turned those words over in her mind and thought about them. Thought about whether June was right and whether she herself was . . . not _wrong_ exactly, but too closed-minded to see the whole picture.

"If you give Neal a chance," June continued, "he just might surprise you."

The only problem with that was that Sara had long prided herself on having seen it all - on being unsurprisable, as it were. But now, as she looked around the room, at the unlikely spectacle of a huge contingent of FBI agents waiting in solidarity with convicted felon Neal Caffrey, she found herself wondering.

Wondering whether being unsurprisable was really something to be proud of, after all.

* * *

Hughes could see that his arrival had taken Peter by surprise. Which probably made sense, given that his original itinerary hadn't had him flying back from DC until later that evening. But the news of Neal's shooting had changed everything. Reese Hughes couldn't countenance the idea of sitting in meetings when one of his people was in critical condition. And the fact that Caffrey wasn't an agent didn't matter one damn bit. So as soon as Jones had called with the grim news, Hughes had cut out for Reagan National, rescheduling his remaining Bureau meetings on the way to the airport and managing to catch an earlier shuttle back to New York. Upon landing, he'd taken a cab straight from LaGuardia to the hospital.

Peter gave him the initial update on Neal's condition—that there was no update—and stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, thrumming with nervous energy as if he was about to start pacing around the room. A number of nearby agents were watching him with looks of veiled concern. Some late arrivals drew closer and listened in, wanting to hear the details, but too polite to ask Peter to recount them again.

"Peter, you mind if we sit?" Hughes asked, affecting tiredness. In truth, he'd been sitting all day—in the airport, on the plane, in the taxi—but this was the only way he could think of to make Peter sit down, short of ordering the agent to do so.

When Hughes sat, Peter did too.

"We apprehended Price—the man who'd murdered Halbridge and stolen his identity," Peter was saying. "Then I saw the limo and realized the killer—Black—had been in it." He ran a hand through his hair. "We made a call, learned the Canadians had released him—"

Hughes interrupted, unable to stop himself. "What? You're saying they just let him go?"

A grim nod was Peter's only response.

"Who?"

Peter shook his head. "I don't know yet. Haven't had time—"

"Okay," Hughes cut in again, raising a hand to stop him. He kept his tone even, but the undercurrent of fury was unmistakable, he knew. "We'll deal with that later. So you found out Black was on the loose."

Peter resumed. "You remember Sara had been staying at the office, right?"

Hughes nodded; he'd been updated during the week about their unwilling guest.

"Then we confirmed that Sara and Neal had already left and were on their way to her apartment." Peter paused and looked away, at nothing in particular.

"We were too late. Black got there right after they did. Neal knew Sara was armed, and he drew Black's fire"—Hughes narrowed his eyes at that and, in the background, one of the nearby agents among the crowd listening in swore softly—"when Black entered the room and shot him in the abdomen. Sara shot Black. Then she called 911, kept pressure on Neal's wounds until EMS got there. He—he nearly bled out."

"She saved his life."

"Yeah. Though," Peter added, remembering the scene in Sara's apartment, "all she feels is guilty she didn't do more."

_She's not the only one, _Hughes thought, eyeing Peter closely. "Where is she now?"

"Right over there," Peter said. Hughes followed his glance. It was easy to identify her; she was one of the very few people in their crowded corner of the room that he didn't recognize.

Hughes looked back at Peter. "What about Black?"

"She got him twice, in the back. Apparently, he didn't die right away, but he was dead by the time NYPD got there."

Good news, though police involvement could make things more difficult. "Any complications?"

"Don't think so. Jones and Diana stayed at the scene to supervise things there. Jones doesn't think there will be any issues; it's clean. She's licensed to carry, the evidence corroborates her account."

Hughes nodded. "Whatever she needs . . ."

". . . we'll do," Peter finished, nodding back.

"I'd like to meet her."

"Sure," Peter said, getting up. Hughes followed him to where Sara sat. She started to rise when they approached, but Peter said, "No, please don't get up," as he made introductions. Hughes seated himself next to her.

"Ms. Ellis, I want to thank you for what you did today."

She looked embarrassed. "Yes. Well. While I appreciate the kind words, I'm . . . I'm just sorry I didn't do more."

Hughes glanced at Peter, who gave him a quick _what did I tell you_ look.

"You prevented the assailant from injuring Neal further. You called for help. You kept pressure on the wound," Hughes said. Then, in a lower voice, "You assured that we're at the hospital instead of the morgue."

She flinched ever so slightly at the last word.

"Neal's a . . ." Hughes hesitated. "He's become a remarkable asset to the Bureau." His eyes flicked over to Peter and then back to her face. "And he's also become a friend."

Sara, watching closely, caught just the tiniest hint of a surprised smile on Peter's face before it vanished.

"I never thought I'd be saying that about a convicted felon, but Neal's managed to change my mind," Hughes said. He paused and added, "I understand you and Neal have a history, as well."

She shouldn't have been surprised that Peter kept his boss up to date. "Um, yes," she replied, recovering quickly. "I was convinced that Neal had—had stolen a Raphael from one of our clients." _Still am convinced_, she almost added, but it seemed a terribly tactless thing to say now, with Neal fighting for his life.

Hughes nodded thoughtfully. "So Peter says. Wouldn't surprise me. Neal's very good at what he does."

"At what he _did_," Peter put in, throwing Hughes a meaningful look. "_And_ at what he does."

"Either. Both. Whatever," Hughes said, waving a hand impatiently. "The point is, whatever Neal's done in the past, he's done a lot of good work for us in the past few months. And I appreciate the fact that you were able to put aside whatever reservations you have about Neal to help him today, when he needed it."

Hughes extended a hand; Sara shook it and watched as he left to speak with Jones and Diana.

Peter stared after him, an odd look on his face. "My God. Neal—he has to make it, just to hear about _that._"

"What?" she asked.

He glanced at her. "Do you know what Hughes said when I first proposed work-release for Caffrey?"

"Um . . . he thought you were kidding?" she suggested, hazarding a guess.

"He thought I was _insane_," Peter corrected, shaking his head at the memory.

"That's something we have in common, then," she said, remembering her own reaction the first time Peter had told her about Neal's arrangement.

Peter chuckled. "Yeah, that's right. Reese was honestly worried about me. Once he accepted that I was in my right mind, he moved on to more nefarious explanations. Eventually he cornered me in the hallway, demanding to know what Neal had on me. He actually believed Neal was somehow trying to . . . blackmail me into freeing him."

"Coercing you from prison?" she said, frowning. "How would that have worked?"

"Ah, who knows?" Peter said with a dismissive snort. "The whole idea was ridiculous, anyway, and just showed how little Hughes knew about Neal. Neal's so good at manipulating people, he doesn't need to resort to something as crude as extortion."

"So he 'manipulated' you into letting him out?" she asked, smiling a little.

"Oh, I knew what he was trying to do," Peter said, his expression wry. "Neal may have _thought_ he was manipulating me—and, believe me, sometimes it's useful to let him think he's doing exactly that—but I'm not a typical mark."

She eyed him thoughtfully. "Speaking of manipulating—how _did_ you talk your boss into it?"

"Hey, Neal's not the only one who can be persuasive," he said, raising an eyebrow. "I got Reese to come around to my way of thinking. Eventually."

"I see. That must have been one hell of a sales job."

"You have no idea," he answered, letting out a long, slow, exhale that ended in a shaky laugh. "But I thought Neal was worth the risk."

She felt her heart stutter in her chest as Neal's words—_his last words_, a treacherous voice said—echoed in her head.

_Tell Peter I know what a risk he took with me._

_I tried not to let him down._

_Please tell him._

But she couldn't. Not now. Because the only reason to share that would be if Neal . . . . _no. _Her mind instinctively shied away from completing that thought.

Telling Peter now might tempt fate. Neal's fate. And she wasn't going to do anything that would make her feel any more responsible for _that_ than she already did.

* * *

As she neared the hospital waiting room, Kimberly Rice was still struggling to think of what she should say to Burke. This kind of interpersonal, compassionate stuff really wasn't her forte; when they were handing out the _warm and fuzzy _gene, she had most definitely been skipped. Normally that was something she couldn't have cared less about. But today, in this situation, she had to admit that it sure would have helped.

Well, one thing she did know was that in times of stress, humor could lighten the mood. So maybe joking would be a good way to ease the tension.

_Caffrey never got shot on _my _watch, _she could say. (Which was even true, by the way.) She tried out the words in her mind_. _Gallows humor, sure, but that was how LEOs coped.

Or at least, that was what she thought. Until she strode into the waiting room and saw Burke.

Then the words died on her lips. Now was not the time for jokes—at least, not _that_ particular joke.

Peter Burke looked . . . haunted. A melodramatic description, to be sure, but it was the first word that popped into her head and it fit. His face, every line of his body, was tight with tension and worry. Getting an actual, honest-to-God smile out of him now, she thought, would be like trying to get the truth out of Caffrey.

They'd made their peace, she and Burke, since the Gless case when Neal had been loaned to her and she'd . . . well, not exactly taken the best care of him.

_Christ, that made him sound like an overdue library book . . . . ._

Anyway, she'd never forget the mixture of fury and disgust Burke had thrown at her after Neal had first been taken by Wilkes. She was a veteran FBI agent and had fought vigorously to make a spot for herself in what was still, in many ways, a boys' club. Along the way, she'd learned to push and push back and to never apologize. Consequently, very few people had the capacity to make Kimberly Rice feel ashamed, but Burke had done it that day, and the memory still stung (as did the reprimand in her personnel file).

Fortunately, Caffrey had emerged relatively unscathed and that, more than anything, helped smooth things over. She knew Burke would never have forgiven her if Caffrey had suffered serious injury—or worse. He likely would have made it his mission in life to see that she never worked for the FBI again. And Caffrey was living proof that Peter Burke eventually got what he wanted.

But Caffrey had been okay, and their missing person, too—an outcome that Rice had to grudgingly admit wasn't due to _her_ efforts. No, Lindsay Gless was alive and well because of Neal Caffrey. Because Caffrey possessed every bit of the innate intelligence and resourcefulness that you'd expect from a master criminal who'd eluded capture for years.

With a wholly-unexpected streak of selflessness thrown in.

When it had all ended, with Lindsay and Caffrey both safe, she'd bitten her tongue and done what she had to do. Kimberly Rice, who believed in never saying she was sorry, who believed regret was a sign of weakness, had apologized to both of them—to Burke and to Caffrey.

Caffrey had made it easy on her. He'd smiled, but almost sheepishly; there was no gloating in it. It was as if he, too, couldn't believe that an FBI agent was apologizing to a convicted felon, like the whole thing was too bizarre to even revel in as he normally would have. He'd joked—_does this mean I've graduated from 'tool' status?_—but even that was said gently, teasingly. There hadn't been any acrimony in his words. At least, she didn't think so. Caffrey was hard to read—_no kidding, he was a con artist—_but she'd been pretty sure he wasn't nearly as perturbed by her behavior as Burke was. She'd tried not to reflect on why that was—on the fact that Caffrey was probably accustomed to being double-crossed and lied to. She tried not to think about it, because it was unflattering to equate herself with the kinds of dishonest, unscrupulous, back-stabbing criminal lowlifes Neal Caffrey had no doubt spent his life associating with.

To suspect that she was little better than your average crook was a real blow to her self-esteem. But Caffrey, to his credit, didn't seem to hold it against her.

Peter Burke was a different story, though. Not that he'd rejected her awkward apology—nothing that crass, or that harsh. But when she'd expressed her contrition to Burke, he'd just looked her in the eye, very coolly. Accepting her apology, but nodding in a way that made it clear that nothing she said mattered in the slightest.

And that, although they'd made their peace, it would take an act of God—Hughes notwithstanding—before the Missing Persons Unit would get anywhere near any operation involving Neal Caffrey. Ever.

So Caffrey had accepted her apology with good grace, quite unruffled and almost embarrassed. While Burke had made it plain that her mea culpa hadn't changed his opinion of her one iota.

For that reason, she felt a little odd being here, but that was part of why she'd come. She wanted, somehow, for Burke to know that she cared. She hated admitting, even to herself, how much that mattered, but it did. She wasn't a cold, heartless bitch—_well, she absolutely was when circumstances called for it_—but, somehow, it was important for Burke to know that she could be more than that.

And when she remembered Burke's barely-concealed panic over his consultant's safety during the Gless case, her heart twisted at what he had to be feeling now, with Caffrey shot. No matter what sort of tension might exist—and probably always would—between her and Burke, it faded into irrelevance at a time like this. Today he was a fellow agent living the nightmare that every LEO dreaded: the fear of losing your partner. Because that was, without a doubt, she knew, what Neal Caffrey was—felon or not.

_He's Burke's partner and that makes him one of us._

Which made Burke, in turn, someone who needed support. Who deserved it, even from colleagues he barely tolerated and certainly didn't trust.

Like her.

Kimberly made her way over to a group of agents from Cyber Crimes. At first glance, she didn't see anyone else from Missing Persons, though, God knew, the entire White Collar unit was here. No surprise. She'd seen how they'd closed ranks around Burke (and Caffrey) after she'd let Neal get kidnapped by Wilkes. The anger, the contempt, in the office had been palpable—and universal. The White Collar unit looked out for their own - and, somewhere along the way, amazingly enough, Caffrey had definitely become one of their own.

Burke was surrounded by a crowd, and she had to wait a few minutes before she could approach. She busied herself getting updates from others she knew, but there was no news, beyond the fact that Neal was still in surgery.

She shook Elizabeth Burke's hand, not missing the flash of recognition in her eyes when she heard Rice's name. Burke's wife knew just who Kimberly Rice was, all right. She was too tactful to say anything, but her face gave her away.

"So nice to meet another colleague of Peter's," she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. There was something on Elizabeth Burke's face that looked almost like contempt, and Kimberly was surprised at how much the sight of it stung.

Peter heard his wife's voice and turned to see who she was talking to.

"Agent Burke." Kimberly stopped, started again. "Peter."

"Agent Rice." Peter wasn't quite good enough to hide his surprise—or maybe, given the situation, he was just beyond trying. "Kimberly. I—I appreciate your coming down."

The most amazing thing, she realized, was that he actually seemed like he meant it.

"Well, I heard about Neal, and I know . . ." _how much he means to you? Oh, yeah, she knew about that all right. Was that too on the nose? _"I just wanted to be here."

"Thanks," Peter said, looking a little self-conscious.

"Neal's a tough bastard," she blurted out. "I mean, I know you know that, though."

Peter nodded, looking faintly amused. "I do."

"Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do?"

"Thanks, but no. Now we're just waiting."

"Yeah. Well," she said, "I'm going to wait too, if you don't mind."

He gave her a long, measuring look, and there was a gleam of something there that she thought might have been respect. "Of course. That's very kind of you."

She shook her head impatiently. "Least I could do."

Peter smiled and she smiled back. A second later, Elizabeth Burke even joined in.

Kimberly wondered if, perhaps, things might be thawing—just a bit—between her and Peter Burke.

She still didn't think Peter would ever let her near any case involving Neal Caffrey. But at least now, he didn't look at her like she was something he'd scraped off the bottom of his shoe.

_And hopefully Caffrey would be around for many more cases (even if none of them would involve her)._

Yeah, she could live with that.

_TBC . . . ._

_Thanks to all readers and reviewers; feedback greatly appreciated._


	12. Calm, Clear and Angry

**Not a Fan of the Bittersweet**

**Chapter 12**

**Calm, Clear and Angry**

"_And there is nothing more dangerous in this world, in any world, than someone calm, clear and angry."  
_― Audrey Hart

…

After a long period of inactivity, several things happened nearly at once.

Two stocky men entered the waiting room. They wore matching jackets identifying them as US Marshals, along with matching buzz cuts. Peter was in the midst of a discussion with one of the clerks, a cheery woman named Janice, when he looked up and saw the new arrivals. Elizabeth watched him stiffen and his expression turn forbidding as he muttered, "Excuse me, I have to go," jerking his head toward where the marshals stood, watching the room. He walked, grim-faced, over to meet them and shepherded them toward an empty space at the far end of the waiting area.

Peter had been expecting this, Elizabeth knew. She also knew that his conversation with the marshals, prompted by the hospital's removal of Neal's anklet, had been less than cordial. Which led her to observe this encounter nervously.

Along with their matching jackets and haircuts, the marshals wore matching _don't mess with me_ expressions. But Peter's body language said he wasn't going to be taking any crap, either. After a perfunctory handshake, he stood very still, with that pinched expression Elizabeth knew all too well—the one that said his patience was waning. _Neal would have known it too,_ she thought.

The shorter marshal was talking. He had a creased, weather-beaten face that looked like he'd been on one too many chases and seen it all in the meantime. Peter said something and the two marshals exchanged a look before the other one responded. But Peter was already shaking his head vigorously and stepping a little closer, infringing on the man's space. His expression was stony and though she was too far away to hear what they were saying, Peter's voice had gotten more audible over the low murmur of other conversations.

Elizabeth glanced around the room, noticing that more than a few of his fellow agents were watching Peter, with expressions that looked as apprehensive as she felt. She saw Jones get up and unobtrusively walk over to stand next to her husband.

Then the door opened to reveal another new arrival.

It was Mozzie.

Elizabeth jumped up. From what Peter had told her, she hadn't known if he would come. She wasn't even sure he knew, yet, about Neal, because Mozzie hadn't responded to Peter's messages. Plus, a hospital waiting room full of federal agents would probably be Mozzie's own personal ninth circle of hell. But here he was, a baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes, as he peered out nervously at the crowd, trying to keep a low profile as he looked for a safe place to land.

When he caught sight of her, his relief was visible, like a drowning man who'd just spotted a rowboat in a sea of circling sharks.

She raced to his side and reached for him, pulling him into a hug which he reciprocated after a moment's hesitation. He looked a question at her and she sighed.

"He's still in surgery and we don't know anything yet."

Anger flashed behind the thick glasses. "How did this happen?" She thought she could hear the unspoken words—_how could the suit let this happen?_

She didn't answer right away.

"Where is he?" Mozzie asked.

He didn't mean Neal, she knew. Elizabeth turned her head toward the far end of the room, where the three-way conversation had become even more animated since she'd last looked. Peter's gaze was hostile as he glowered at the marshals. He had his hands on his hips now, chest sticking out like he did when making a particularly emphatic point.

All three of them were keeping their voices down, in deference to the nearby crowd. But you didn't need to hear a word to know that the discussion was quickly degenerating into an argument—the body language said it all.

Elizabeth couldn't help having a strong sense of dread. Peter's nerves were already frayed, and his usual patience was probably in short supply. Plainly, this encounter wasn't going well, and she feared Peter was about to do something he'd regret.

_Calm down, _her mental voice said sternly. _This is Peter. Peter wouldn't—he wouldn't actually slug a federal law enforcement officer. _

Then she remembered, crystal-clear, that moment when Peter's fist had connected, so solidly, with Garrett Fowler's jaw.

_Yes, he totally would. He already has._

One of the marshals said something, they both laughed, and Peter's face turned into a thundercloud. She suddenly felt wholly inadequate. It was a little like watching a car wreck happen in slow motion. Should she do something, try to intervene? What would she say? Briefly she considered faking a fainting fit just to draw attention. No, Peter would kill her. She glanced over at Jones, hovering right next to Peter. He looked like she felt—worried, but uncertain what to do.

Watching in horrified fascination, she couldn't tear her eyes away from Peter in the moment before he committed a felony. Then she remembered that Mozzie had asked her a question.

"Peter's over there," she said slowly. "And I think—I think he's about to be arrested for assaulting a US marshal,"

She flicked her eyes over to Mozzie, who, of course, had already spotted Peter, already realized what was occurring. Lightning-quick, his expression shifted from anger to surprise and then—admiration? Approval? Yes, both of those, she decided.

Just then, Peter's boss materialized, seemingly out of nowhere, to stand at Peter's side. With the air of a man who'd needed mere seconds to read and diagnose the situation, he put his left hand on Peter's shoulder and shook the marshals' hands with his right.

She thought she could see Peter relax, just a bit.

"No," Mozzie pronounced shrewdly. "Hughes won't let that happen."

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "How do you know who—" she broke off. "Never mind. Why am I even asking?"

Mozzie gave her a crooked smile. "Knowledge is power, Mrs. Suit. And I am not without resources. Your husband won't be joining the ranks of felons any time soon. But it's kind of heartening to know that he could have." He paused a moment and then said, "Did you see Neal?"

She shook her head. "No, Peter saw him, just for a few seconds before he went into surgery." She explained what little she knew about Neal's injuries as Mozzie frowned.

"Mozzie, I know how upset you must be. I am, too. And Peter is. We all are, really. It's just—please don't be too hard on Peter."

"Neal got shot on a case. And the suit wasn't even there."

Elizabeth grimaced at the echo of her own thought from earlier.

"I know," she said. "And no one feels worse about that than Peter. He—he . . . ."

"Feels responsible?" Mozzie supplied.

"Yes."

"Well, he is. Isn't he?" Mozzie's voice was flat and cold.

"He wasn't responsible for that—that man being released. He couldn't have known that would happen. And he—he didn't even know that Neal would be there," she shot back.

Mozzie just looked at her, expression unchanged.

"All I'm saying is, if you feel the need to beat Peter up about this, or to make him feel guilty, well, you can just save your energy. He's done a really good job of that himself," Her voice had grown fierce, and she realized she was drawing some wary looks from nearby agents.

She dropped her voice lower. "He's done nothing else for the past few hours but blame himself. Why else do you think he was about to punch a U.S. marshal?"

"All right, Mrs. Suit, Take it easy," he muttered.

She glanced back at Peter, watching his boss do exactly what Mozzie had said he would. Their voices were still too low to hear, but their body language spoke of tension defused. Hughes was speaking while the others listened. Peter was still tight-lipped, but he'd taken his hands off his hips, at least, and his posture had relaxed marginally. One of the marshals nodded and Peter's eyes flicked to him as he spoke.

Elizabeth exhaled in relief. Peter wasn't going to be arrested after all.

Mozzie had plopped down into a chair, no doubt carefully chosen so that he was facing away from the crowd of FBI agents. He had pulled out his phone, holding it close to his chest, and was texting someone.

The conclave with the marshals was breaking up, with Hughes again shaking hands. The marshals didn't look particularly satisfied, but Peter did, mostly, and that was good enough for her. The shorter marshal said something to Peter as he was about to turn and walk away. Whatever her husband said in response caused the marshal to stop and give Peter a glare, while Hughes just looked exasperated.

Peter smiled sardonically, but there was something dark and a little unpleasant in his eyes as he watched them leave the room. Once the marshals had departed, Hughes put a hand on Peter's arm and began what looked suspiciously like a mini-lecture, or at least a very earnest remonstration. Peter listened, face expressionless and still looking out the doorway, but Hughes didn't stop until Peter's eyes met his and he nodded, saying something back.

That encounter over, Hughes walked away and Peter looked around, searching the room. Upon seeing Elizabeth, he smiled and made his way back toward her. He was waylaid by yet another agent Elizabeth didn't know, but extricated himself deftly after a short conversation.

"Everything okay, hon?"

"Yeah, fantastic," he said with a sigh. "We got them off our backs for a while, so that's something."

"That's good," she said, but with a tentative note in her voice. Whatever she'd thought earlier, now that she'd seen him up close, Peter didn't look or sound particularly content.

"It is, but, _Jesus_," Peter said, fairly growling. "They won't be happy unless Neal's in leg irons and cuffed to the bed. Forget the fact that he's sedated into unconsciousness and undergoing surgery," he added bitterly.

"But they're gone," she pointed out.

"Gone, but not happy. Not that I care about that last part. Thanks to a cooler head prevailing," Peter said, with a quick glance at his boss.

"Speaking of Hughes," she ventured, "you know, at the end there, that looked suspiciously like you, umm, getting chewed out."

"Oh, that?" Peter shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Reese didn't appreciate my parting shot to the marshals."

"And what was that?"

It was Mozzie's voice. He stood, turning to face Peter. It proved how distracted Peter was that he hadn't even noticed his presence.

"Oh, nothing," Peter said, looking uncomfortable and giving Mozzie an awkward nod. "Mozzie. I . . . I didn't realize you were here."

"Suit," Mozzie said, nodding back, but Elizabeth was pleased to note that his voice was softer than it had been before. He looked at Peter, who met his gaze steadily and then said, "Let me fill you in."

He drew Mozzie a distance away, and Elizabeth heard him launching into the story, details precise and voice clipped. Peter was calm and she was relieved to see that Mozz was, too.

Peter answered every question until Mozzie was satisfied. Peter ended by looking away and saying he was sorry.

Silence ensued and Mozzie broke it.

"Drop the guilt. It's not your fault, Suit."

He looked like he'd actually surprised himself, and he'd certainly surprised Peter, whose eyes widened just a bit.

Peter shook his head. "I don't know if it's guilt as much as it's . . . responsibility."

"Oh, please. That's just a 15-cent word for guilt. And that is definitely what you have."

"Now you're an expert on guilt?"

"Certainly not," Mozzie replied. "However, while I have very little personal experience with the emotion, I know it when I see it."

Peter started to say something, but Mozzie forestalled him with an upraised hand.

"'_Nothing is more wretched than the mind of a man conscious of guilt_,'" Mozzie intoned. "Or so Plautus said, and I agree."

"But another wise man said, '_Guilt is never to be doubted_,'" Peter shot back, and Mozzie, incongruously, smiled.

"I didn't know you were a devotee of Kafka. But let's face it, Kafka never met Neal Caffrey—if he had, I'm sure he would have made an exception," Mozzie said, quoting again, "'_When people expect me to go right, I'll go left. I'm unpredictable._'"

"Neal said that?"

"No, Paula Abdul. But Neal doesn't need to say it. He lives it."

Peter rolled his eyes.

'Look, you take about as much care of Neal as it's possible to do—given his propensity to find trouble in seemingly any situation. This is just your Irish Catholic roots showing."

"How do you know—" Peter started, then cut himself off. "Why do I even wonder? Anyway, I haven't been to Mass in years."

"Fine, then feel guilty about that instead," Mozzie said, soundly oddly paternal.

Something changed in Peter's face; it was as if something relaxed and loosened there. A little of the tension was gone. Elizabeth moved from watching Peter to watching Mozzie and felt suspicious moisture in her eyes. She could have hugged him.

In fact, a moment later, when Peter left to converse with yet another new arrival, she did grab the little man and pull him in close.

"Thanks, Mozzie."

He shrugged and smiled. "Don't you dare tell him I said this, but your husband is miles above the typical fed. Which means he's just the type to let something like this eat him alive. And that would be a shame."

She bit her lip. If Neal didn't make it, that was exactly what she was afraid of.

Mozzie must have read her mind. "I'm not usually one to play the Pollyanna role, but you should really focus on the positive."

She looked at him and he looked back. The smile had faded and his face was uncharacteristically bleak.

"What choice do we have?"

* * *

The wait dragged on. Peter had begun to feel that crushing and always-perplexing exhaustion that came from sitting around doing nothing but worrying. He blinked tiredly, trying to get the grittiness out of his eyes. He simultaneously wished he hadn't had so much coffee and longed for another cup.

It was like a nightmare, he thought grimly. Peter wasn't prone to nightmares, but he'd certainly had them. He knew what they felt like.

They felt like this.

Except that this was worse. Because you couldn't wake up and find yourself back in comfortable reality. Now his reality _was _the nightmare—constant, unrelenting, overwhelming—and there was no escape from it.

Some people had left, others had arrived, and the waiting room was still crowded with people who were there to show support. Peter had never appreciated so much the realization that the FBI was a family—as horribly clichéd as that sounded—and that, in times like this, they were there for each other. He welcomed the distraction of having people to talk to, who knew better than to ask him about Neal or to express anxiety. Instead they joked with him, sometimes highly inappropriately, talked about cases, told stories about their own close calls and how they'd recovered, good as new. Whenever he verged on becoming too morose, too fixated on worst-case scenarios, someone was always there to pull him out of it.

Which was good, because he'd promised El he'd try to stay positive, and he hated like hell to disappoint his wife.

It had been six hours and thirty-seven minutes since Peter had first arrived at the hospital when the moment he'd praying for—and dreading—came.

The waiting room doors slid open and a youngish-looking man emerged. He wore blue scrubs and was scanning a clipboard, showing mild surprise at the size of the crowd when he finally looked up.

Hospital staffers had entered the waiting room several times over the course of the afternoon, but each time they'd called for other families, other people who were waiting for word—never for Peter. Nonetheless, he looked up hopefully at the sight of the nurse, and this time he was rewarded.

"Special Agent Peter Burke?" the nurse called, having to raise his voice a little to be heard above what had become a cacophony of voices.

Peter felt his mouth go dry. He shot up out of his seat, instantly forgetting about Agent Pendro from Bank Fraud who'd been mid-sentence about a particularly clueless perp he'd recently apprehended.

Elizabeth rose, no less quickly, She squeezed his hand and gave him a tremulous, encouraging smile as he met her eyes for a moment. She nodded and mouthed _he'll be fine, _before Peter turned to walk toward the nurse, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room now on him. All conversation had stopped and suddenly the tension was palpable. People moved aside, clearing Peter's path to the door.

The nurse smiled at him, but it was a pro-forma sort of smile, and he took no comfort from it.

"If you'll follow me, please, Agent Burke," he said, and Peter nodded without speaking. The nurse turned, pausing to swipe his ID card, and the doors opened.

Peter followed him down a gleaming, sterile corridor, eerily quiet except for the click of Peter's soles on the smooth tile floor. The nurse's feet, sneaker-clad, made no sound. They passed several doors and a desk where someone sat, peering at a computer monitor, and two men in white lab coats were in animated conversation. Finally the nurse stopped at the fourth door, just past the desk.

"Dr. Simmons will be out to speak with you, Agent Burke," he said, opening the door and ushering Peter into a windowless room that had the look of a small office. "He's Mr. Caffrey's surgeon. Please have a seat here."

Peter entered the room, eyeing the cheap wood and vinyl chairs, but didn't sit right away.

"Would you like anything? Water, coffee, tea?"

"No, thanks," Peter said, finally sitting as instructed, wondering, as he did so, just how bad he looked.

And whether this level of solicitousness was because the news was bad.

_What was the protocol when someone died and how was it different from what was happening now?_

_Christ._

_Focus, Peter. Enough._

The nurse nodded and smiled again.

"I'll be right out at the desk if you need anything. He'll be in very shortly."

The nurse departed, closing the door softly behind him and leaving Peter with nothing to do but wait.

He looked around the room. Tiny as it was, there was little to occupy him, but he catalogued it anyway, his mind on auto-pilot. Three chairs total, all upholstered in maroon vinyl. Tasteful but bland wall paper with a very pale dot pattern—or was that a small flower?—in the background. Yes, it was a flower, he decided, upon closer examination. A painting hanging on the wall to his right - a landscape. A small desk covered by a plain black blotter. Also on the desk: a chipped, gray coffee mug containing two Bic pens. On the other side of the desk was a computer with a hospital logo KCHC screensaver bouncing around the screen and a warning label that cautioned users not to access the Internet from this workstation due to security concerns.

_Is Neal dead?_

_If he'd been okay, would they have brought him all the way back here to deliver the news in private? _

_Yes, they would, _his logical mind said. _Privacy laws, remember? They can't disclose personal information about a patient to a roomful of strangers._

It should have made him feel better, but it didn't. His being here didn't foretell anything about Neal's condition. Good news or bad, they had to deliver it in private.

The longer he waited here, alone, with nothing to think about but the unthinkable, the more the worst-case scenarios flooded his mind.

He wished, suddenly, that Elizabeth were here—and then felt a little ashamed of his own need. He was a veteran FBI agent, for God's sake. He could handle this.

Peter stared at the desk, thinking incongruously of Neal's desk at the Bureau. Peter had been secretly pleased to see Neal putting a few personal mementos there, like the little bust of Socrates—even if art replicas weren't the typical item you found on anyone's desk at the FBI. One of the other agents had razzed Neal about it and Neal, unruffled, had smiled and said, _this place could do with some culture_. Peter didn't know about that, but he liked to imagine that Neal's personalizing his desk was a sign that he was putting down roots, that he might want to stay. That he'd meant it when he told Peter he was done running.

Of course, that could be just wishful thinking on Peter's part.

If Neal . . . if Neal didn't make it, Peter would have to clean out the desk himself. It was the kind of task that ought to be delegated, but one never knew what you might find in Neal's workspace. He wouldn't put a junior agent in that kind of awkward position. You might think Neal would never bring anything incriminating to the FBI, and yet . . . and yet, when Neal was feeling it, when he was comfortable, he could do some pretty brazen (to Peter's mind, some pretty stupid) things. You never knew what you might find in that hollowed-out weapons manual in the bottom drawer.

As Neal's custodial agent, Peter had the absolute right to comb through Neal's desk—hell, his apartment, too, for that matter—anytime he wanted, but he never had. Neal had gotten comfortable with things, and Peter had, too.

With Neal, comfortable often translated to _dangerous_. Which was why Peter would have to deal with the desk himself.

_Don't think about that. Because you're only going to be cleaning out his desk if he— _

_Where the hell was the doctor?_

God, but it was stuffy in here. No ventilation whatsoever.

He thought of the tears that would fill Elizabeth's eyes when he told her Neal was gone, of the anger that would fill Mozzie's.

Over the past few hours, in accordance with Elizabeth's wishes, Peter had been mostly successful in _not_ imagining the worst. Any time his mind had wandered in that direction, he'd pulled it back. Or, to be accurate, _someone_ had pulled it back for him. Officer Megan Flynn. Agent Blake. El herself, of course. Jones. Sara. June. Reese Hughes. Rita Karstens. Hell, even Kimberly Rice. Peter wasn't a fan of being on display during an emotional crisis, but he had to admit: all the agents and well-wishers had provided an invaluable distraction—just what he'd needed to keep the weight of anxiety at bay.

Well, mostly successful. Except for those first moments when he'd heard the 187 call over the police radio, that hellish car trip when he hadn't known if Neal was alive or dead. And those moments when he'd burst into Sara's apartment and seen the blood on her—and that pool of blood on the floor.

He'd thought about it then. But since those moments, he'd been pretty successful at not really facing, full-on, the stark reality of Neal not making it. Of walking through the elevator doors alone on a Monday morning. Of being eager to bounce a new theory off of Neal and realizing he wasn't there to hear it. Of looking down from his office and seeing an empty space where Neal used to be.

He hadn't thought of those things, before. But now he found it hard to think of anything else.

He let himself contemplate what it would be like to work cases without Neal, about how different it would be. In one way, it was patently ridiculous. Peter had been an agent for more than ten years and had established a sterling reputation and a higher-than-average clearance rate long before he'd begun baby-sitting a felon. But somehow, after only a few months, Neal felt . . . integral. He had the insight and intuition of a good investigator which, married with his own unique (and admittedly extra-legal) experience, allowed him to make real contributions on cases. Neal brought a perspective that Peter didn't have, could never have. Peter had to admit: he was better with Neal than without him.

Of course, he'd never admitted that to Neal. Nor had he admitted, even to himself, until this moment, that it wasn't just Neal's work that Peter would miss. It was the smart-ass remarks, the frequent whining about the quality of the office coffee, the way Neal sometimes finished Peter's sentences for him, or uncannily voiced a thought at the same time Peter was just about to verbalize it.

Yeah, he'd miss all those things. But he'd never told Neal any of it.

_With very good reason,_ a practical voice in his mind said.

_And now you might not get the chance_, an accusing voice retorted.

He swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat.

Peter wished he could pace; it had seemed to help, a little, out in the waiting room. But in here, there was literally nowhere to go. He stood and took one step—pretty much all he could take—over to the wall to examine the painting that hung there. It was a standard landscape, a solitary beach scene that looked like it could have come from any starving artists' sale. Neal would have sniffed and called it pedestrian, but Peter decided he kind of liked it. The reeds that lined the dry sand had some nicely detailed brushwork on them. _ And the cool blue color of the water was very close to the shade of Neal's—_

A knock sounded, and quiet though it was, Peter still jumped.

"Come in," he said, as the door opened to reveal a large man—Peter was tall, but the doctor had a good two inches on him—wearing a lab coat over worn-looking scrubs. He had close-cropped salt-and pepper hair, ruddy skin, and an unmistakable air of authority.

"You must be Special Agent Burke," he said extending a hand. "I'm Dr. Simmons, Mr. Caffrey's surgeon, and I'm sorry that we kept you waiting so long."

His avuncular manner didn't seem like that of a man about to deliver dire news, Peter thought hopefully as he shook hands. But he knew it was far too soon to draw any conclusions.

They both sat and the doctor briefly consulted a sheaf of papers from the clipboard he held—_Neal's chart, _Peter thought automatically. He watched him and waited, feeling tightness in his chest like a vise. The doctor looked Peter in the eye.

"Your partner's in recovery," Dr. Simmons said. Peter exhaled in a rush, completely unaware until that minute that he'd been holding his breath. He felt lightheaded for just an instant and then it was gone.

"But I have to warn you that he's not out of the woods yet," the doctor continued. Peter felt the worry fill up his chest again.

"As you know, Mr. Caffrey was brought to the ER with multiple gunshot wounds, two to be exact, in the lower right quadrant of the abdomen. Upon being admitted, he was immediately assessed and brought to the OR. I performed four hours of surgery to repair the damage. One round was extracted"—he glanced down at the papers again and then back up—"and it's been preserved as evidence."

Peter nodded.

"The other wound was a through-and-through, which necessitated some work on Mr. Caffrey's anterior as well."

The doctor continued. "The damage was extensive. Complicating things was the severe blood loss." His expression changed and his voice softened. "I have to tell you, Agent Burke, your partner came very close to bleeding out. If he'd gotten here a few minutes later . . . ." he trailed off.

Again, Peter nodded mutely, feeling a chill spread through him.

"Someone in poorer health might not have survived the surgery. As it is, the next 48 hours will be critical. Mr. Caffrey will be moved to the intensive care unit when he's out of recovery, and he'll remain there for some time. He needs to be constantly monitored for any signs that his condition is deteriorating."

The doctor paused. Peter had to clear his throat before speaking. "What signs are you worried about?"

"We need to be on the lookout for possible internal bleeding, infection, blood clots, organ failure, drop in blood pressure. Strokes are a significant threat. Any sort of abnormal cardiac rhythm or function. Those would be the primary post-op concerns with a patient in Mr. Caffrey's condition."

Peter almost wished he hadn't asked. "So he might—he still might not make it." His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, rough and hoarse.

"He's suffered an extensive trauma," Simmons replied. "And blood loss puts a severe strain on the heart. Mr. Caffrey received transfusions to counteract that, but he had already suffered an episode of cardiac arrest in the ambulance. The good news about that, by the way, is that the paramedics were able to restore normal rhythm very quickly, so we don't anticipate any of the consequences that can result from cerebral hypoxia."

Peter's confusion must have registered because the doctor eyed him and explained, "I'm sorry, Agent Burke. When the heart stops pumping, the supply of oxygen to the brain can be cut off. If this continues for any prolonged period of time, brain damage results."

Peter swallowed hard. _Brain damage._

"But again, there's no reason to believe that will be a problem," Simmons emphasized. "Fortunately, he didn't arrest until the paramedics had arrived. Your partner was lucky."

You knew you were in a bad way, Peter reflected grimly, when your doctor was using the words _cardiac arrest_ and _lucky_ in the same sentence.

Simmons continued with anatomical details, the sheer quantity of which filled Peter with renewed dread. Repair to the fascia, as well as the muscles in Neal's abdomen and back, along with numerous blood vessels. One bullet had struck a rib, shattering it and sending bits of both bullet and bone throughout the abdomen. Removal of the fragments—Simmons used the word _shrapnel _to describe them—had been a long, painstaking process, and a few additional sutures had been needed to close tiny internal wounds. The other bullet had traveled a different, but no less destructive path. it had ripped through organs and soft tissue, necessitating removal of the appendix—_too damaged to save, _the doctor said, but he called it a _nonessential organ_—as well as resection of the large intestine, but, as the doctor put it, "the good Lord gave us plenty of extra, so Mr. Caffrey won't miss it."

Peter listened to the litany. He tried not to feel overwhelmed, trying to focus instead on the questions he should ask.

The bit about the intestine was worrisome. "Will he have to wear a bag?" Peter asked. A friend of his had undergone that, and Peter knew how difficult it had been for her.

"No," the doctor assured him. Peter breathed a sigh of relief. "We were able to maintain the continuity of the bowel, which should preserve normal digestive function. But to minimize any potential problems, he'll be on IV fluids at first, then liquids later on. If he tolerates them well, then we can try him on solid foods in a few days."

Peter nodded; that. at least, was good news. Then another thought occurred to him as he ran through what Simmons had said earlier. "You said blood loss affects the heart. Could there be any—any permanent damage from that?"

"There's always a risk in these cases. Has Mr. Caffrey suffered any heart problems in the past? There was no mention of it in his history, but are you aware of anything that could have indicated cardiac issues?"

Peter shook his head. "I don't think so. He's in good shape." _Years of running from the law will do that for a person . . . ._

"Indeed," the doctor agreed. "Which puts the odds in his favor. I wouldn't anticipate problems, but we're going to keep a close eye on it nonetheless. His heart is beating normally now, and we're waiting for some additional blood work results that will tell us if there is any loss of function from the muscle. That's essential when there's been a cardiac arrest. We'll also call in a cardiologist as part of the team treating Mr. Caffrey." Again he consulted the sheaf of papers. "Dr. Khwaja is in the hospital now and he'll be looking in on your partner once he's in the ICU."

The doctor looked up once again. "Mr. Caffrey is very weak and needs all the help we can give him right now. That means he'll be placed on a ventilator so his body doesn't have to deal with the stress of breathing."

_The stress of breathing. Jesus._

"I've also decided that Mr. Caffrey will be placed in a medically induced coma initially—"

Peter realized his expression must have changed because the doctor stopped mid-sentence.

"Agent Burke, I assure you this is standard procedure."

Peter nodded quickly, twice, and worked hard to school his expression to something approximating calmness. "I'm sure it is. It's just . . . ." his voice drifted off.

"Alarming?" the doctor supplied. "Yes, it is," he said seriously. "But as difficult as it may be to see him like that, it's essential to help him get better. He won't feel anything, which is for the best. If Mr. Caffrey were awake any time soon, he'd be in a world of hurt, and that would be extremely detrimental to his health. As long as we keep him under, his bodily functions are minimized so all the energy can be directed toward healing."

_Energy directed toward healing_, Peter repeated mentally. That was good, sounded upbeat. He'd have to quote that line to El.

"There will be a convalescence, of course, but as long as he comes through the next couple of days, Mr. Caffrey has an excellent chance of making a full recovery with no lasting effects. Well, not counting a couple of scars."

The doctor smiled and Peter managed a small smile in return.

"Your partner's made it through the worst part, Agent Burke. There are no guarantees, but Mr. Caffrey is young and healthy. His prognosis is good. We just need to watch him like a hawk for the next couple of days."

Peter nodded. "Thank you. Doctor. For everything."

Simmons waved a dismissive hand. "Now what other questions do you have?"

"About the—the coma. Do you have any idea how long that will be?"

The doctor didn't answer right away. "A good question, but a hard one to answer. Initially, I would anticipate two days at minimum, but then it'll be up to the attending physician and myself. Mr. Caffrey's progress, of course, will dictate. We don't want to keep him under any longer than we think is necessary."

"You mentioned that a cardiologist would be consulting on Neal's case. I'd like to speak with him."

"Of course," Simmons agreed, scrawling a note on the file.

Peter dug into his pocket and handed him a card. "My cell's on there, also."

Simmons opened the desk drawer, finding a paper clip to attach the card to the papers. "We'll have him contact you once he's examined Mr. Caffrey."

"You mentioned all the damage to the tissues, the muscle, the organs. Is he—will there be any long-term effects from that?"

"I hope not," the doctor said. "I can assure you, we did the best we could. I have no reason to expect any additional adverse effects. But, again, there are no guarantees."

"Can I see him now?" Peter asked.

The doctor shook his head. "No visitors are allowed in recovery—too much risk of infection. But once he's settled in a bed in the ICU, Agent Burke, you'll be able to visit. Unfortunately, it's going to be a bit of a wait." Simmons looked apologetic. "It could take a while, but it should be within the next two hours. If you can't stay—"

The agent gave an abrupt head shake. "I'm not going anywhere. No matter how long it takes. They allow visitors in the ICU?"

"Definitely," Simmons said. "There are rules regarding visitation, of course, due to the level of care being provided. But you'll be able to visit—in fact, we strongly encourage it."

"Except you said he'll be unconscious," Peter pointed out.

"Doesn't matter," the doctor replied briskly. "It helps the healing process to have friends and family nearby." He hesitated a moment, then said, "I know you've been designated as Mr. Caffrey's health care agent. Does he have any family?"

Peter thought of his response to the same question from Officer Flynn. _Not that I know of._

"No."

The doctor showed no reaction. "Very well. Anyway, the nurses will go over the ICU rules. Don will take you back to the surgical waiting room. Then when Mr. Caffrey has been transferred to the ICU, they'll escort you in to see him. Usually they limit visitors to two per patient."

"Oh," the doctor said, skimming through the chart once more. "There's one more thing. Our ER personnel removed an electronic tracker from Mr. Caffrey's ankle when he arrived."

Peter nodded; this, at least, he was prepared for. "Neal is a nonviolent offender who's on work-release with the FBI. He's required to submit to monitoring as a condition of his parole."

"I see," Simmons said, making another notation in the file. "Well, he's not going to be able to wear it in the ICU. Not that he will be capable of going anywhere any time soon."

"I'll worry about that when he gets better," Peter said, hoping he wasn't being overly optimistic. "Once he's in a regular room . . . ."

"There you go," the doctor said approvingly. "Do you have any other questions?"

He probably ought to, Peter thought, but his mind had gone semi-blank trying to process everything he'd just heard, and no more questions were forthcoming. "Not at the moment, no."

The doctor gave him an understanding look. "If anything comes up, please let us know."

They both stood up, shook hands again.

"We'll take good care of him, Agent Burke." Peter nodded. "Don will be in to take you back out to the waiting room."

Simmons departed, closing the door quietly behind him.

Peter, left alone once again, stood there feeling unaccountably lost. He looked once more at the landscape hanging on the wall, but this time, instead of admiring the brushwork, his thoughts ran in a continuous, frightening loop as he replayed the doctor's rundown of the damage Neal had suffered. _Shattered rib. Shrapnel. Internal wounds. Appendix. Intestine. Cardiac arrest. Blood loss. Brain damage. Medically induced coma. The stress of breathing—no, _Peter thought, trying to break the spell, _he said the prognosis is good._

"Agent Burke?"

Peter started, turning quickly to face the door where the nurse stood, watching him with undisguised concern. He realized he had not heard the man knock, or enter, and had no idea how long he'd been talking to him while he stood there, mind endlessly spinning out worst-case scenarios.

_Get ahold of yourself, for God's sake._

The man's voice was gentle—in the way people sounded when they were dealing with someone on the edge of losing it. "Agent Burke, if you're ready, I can take you back to the waiting room."

"Yes," he said, giving himself a mental head shake and mustering up a smile. "Sorry, I was just . . . distracted."

"No need to apologize," the nurse replied, smiling back. "Are you sure I can't get you something to drink before we go back?"

He must look as if he were on the verge of collapse. "No, no, I'm fine, thank you."

Peter trudged along behind him once more down the quiet corridor, around a corner to the waiting room doors. Exhaustion and anxiety were taking a toll; he felt like a sleepwalker, like he was existing in an unreality where nothing was certain.

Before he slid his card through the reader that opened the doors, Don stopped and looked back at Peter. "I understand you will be visiting your partner in the ICU?"

He nodded.

"That's good. I guess Dr. Simmons warned you it will be a while before he's allowed visitors?"

"He said a couple of hours."

"Yes, unfortunately, it could be that long."

"Doesn't matter," he said, swallowing hard.

"As soon as they have him settled in, we'll bring you down. In the meantime, you may want to go to the cafeteria, or even leave the hospital for a while. Take a break. We'll call you on your cell if you're not here."

Peter smiled. He didn't plan to go very far, but he appreciated the sentiment.

….

Focused on Neal and worrying over the doctor's explanation of his injuries, Peter had completely forgotten the crowd in the waiting room. It was an odd sensation to walk through the doors and see every conversation stop, every face turned toward him apprehensively. He wasn't used to being the singular focus of attention. That was Neal's thing, not his.

Peter cleared his throat. Well, at least he didn't have to raise his voice, since the room had gone silent.

He kept it brief, saying that Neal had made it through the surgery and pausing to wait out the collective sigh of relief. He explained that Neal was still in danger and headed to the ICU. His chances were good, but his injuries were extensive, blah, blah, blah. He didn't detail the damage or the alarmingly long list of complications the doctor had spelled out for him. Peter didn't have the stomach for that.

He finished up by thanking everyone for coming and telling them that nothing would be happening any time soon, because there was still more waiting ahead.

As Peter had hoped, people took this as a cue to leave. While he appreciated the support—so much that he couldn't really put into words just how much—there was nothing more to be gained by their staying.

It took a while for the crowd to disperse. So many of them wanted to talk with Peter, to say goodbye, to offer reassurances that Neal was too tough of a bastard to not make it, to tell him to call if he needed anything, anything at all.

Sara Ellis and Reese Hughes were the last to go, only after extracting assurances from Peter that he'd update them after seeing Neal. The two of them walked out together; Peter could hear them talking about his consultant as they exited.

When he'd shaken the last hand, Elizabeth was there with a paper cup she'd filled up at the water cooler. Peter accepted it gratefully, surprised to realize he was a little hoarse from talking so much. Elizabeth and Mozzie were chatting quietly, with Jones and Diana sitting nearby.

Peter stood in front of his agents, waiting for them to look up.

"Okay, you two. Show's over. Time to run along. I appreciate your being here, but you don't have to hang around any more."

They exchanged a glance and Elizabeth spoke up briskly.

"Hon, Mozz and I thought we'd go grab something at the cafeteria while we're waiting. Clinton and Diana asked if they could join us."

Peter frowned at them. "That's really not necessary."

"No?" Diana asked. To Jones she said, "Our boss is telling us eating dinner isn't necessary. Isn't that a violation of policy?"

"If this keeps up, we're gonna have to report him to HR," Jones agreed, smiling a little.

Peter groaned. "Come on. I meant it's not necessary that you _stay_."

"We know that," Diana answered.

"But we want to," Jones chimed in.

"Because they serve such fine cuisine in the hospital cafeteria," Peter said sarcastically.

The two agents exchanged another knowing glance.

"And we thought he was smart," Diana said, _sotto voce_ now. "I mean, they tell us the smart ones get promoted, right?"

"Well, he's under a lot of stress," Jones pointed out.

"Okay, you two," Peter interjected.

Diana ignored him, shaking her head sadly. "He thinks we're going for the cuisine. Seriously?"

"Guess so," Jones responded, shooting a grin at Peter. "You'd think he'd have figured out that we're going for the company. The quality conversation. The—"

"Oh, yeah, like you don't get enough of that spending eight hours a day with me," Peter interrupted, rolling his eyes.

Jones and Diana's eyes met one more time before Diana sent an embarrassed-looking sideways glance at Peter.

After an awkward silence, she said gently, "Um, boss, we were talking about Elizabeth."

Peter stared for a moment before realizing he'd been had. He laughed and Elizabeth joined in.

"Hey, what about me?" Mozzie asked, mock-affonted. "What about _my_ company?"

"Oh, it goes without saying that we want _that_," Jones assured him, voice solemn.

"Speak for yourself," Diana said, sighing.

* * *

The five of them sat at a table in the hospital cafeteria, eating cheap but tasteless food and making small talk. Well, Elizabeth thought, it might be more accurate to say _four _of them were eating and talking. Peter was doing more picking at his food than actual eating, and he was mostly quiet, as he'd been since speaking with the surgeon.

He'd relayed the specifics of Neal's injuries, all the things he hadn't shared with the crowd in the waiting room. They'd listened, not speaking, while Peter talked dully about shrapnel and shattered ribs and organ damage and medically induced comas, and all the while, Elizabeth's heart ached with fear for Neal and worry for her husband. Peter was trying so hard to tamp down his emotions and maintain his composure; she could see the toll it was taking on him.

With that over, by silent agreement, they were very deliberately not talking about Neal. The conversation came in fits and starts, which probably wasn't surprising, given the eclectic nature of their little group. Elizabeth did her part, telling a long involved story about her needy bridal client—minus any names, of course—that had them all chuckling. Diana talked about her girlfriend's new job, and Clinton showed pictures of his nephew, who'd just turned a year old. Mozzie chimed in with a comment about the latest antics at City Council, which kept the discussion going for a while longer; Mozzie turned out to have a completely predictable libertarian streak.

"What do you think, Peter?" Elizabeth asked, trying to draw her husband into the conversation.

Peter looked up from his plate to meet her gaze. "I, uh, I think I know better than to express an opinion about politics." She knew Peter well enough to realize that this actually translated to, _I wasn't really paying attention._

_Fine, _she thought. _You don't want to talk, well, I'm gonna give you something to talk about, then. And you're probably not going to like it._

El gave her husband a pointed look, just to make it clear that she was on to him, and mentally prepared for battle. This was as good a time as any; plus, she had strength in numbers, here. She picked up her Styrofoam cup and took a big gulp of water to fortify herself.

"Well, then, let's change the subject. Hon, I've just—I've been thinking about what you said earlier. You know . . . about Neal."

That brought a sharp, warning glance from Peter; he was definitely paying attention now. And definitely not happy. Elizabeth took a deep breath.

"I know you're worried about the risks he takes. But suppose . . . just suppose you decided things had to change and so you—you chained Neal to a desk. Not literally," Elizabeth added quickly, "but, you know, figuratively. Restricted him to . . . the office. To doing paperwork and looking at files, things like that. What do you think would happen?"

Peter, studying her with an unreadable expression, didn't answer right away. A beat later, Diana and Mozzie spoke at the exact same time, as if they'd planned it.

"He'd run?"

Peter shot a wry look at Diana and then Mozzie.

"Hey, you should never underestimate Neal's capacity to do something rash when he feels . . . cornered," Mozzie warned, directing a stern stare in Peter's direction.

"Or bored," Peter observed. "Don't forget bored."

Mozzie looked mildly impressed, in spite of himself. "Point taken."

"And don't worry, I would never underestimate that," Peter answered, voice full of resignation. "But you skipped a step."

"Which is?" Jones asked.

"Well," Peter said, "first, he'd try to finagle his way out of it. He'd concentrate on convincing me that it would be misguided at best and counterproductive at worst. And above all, he'd have a whole arsenal of examples of how it would benefit _me _if I'd only do what he wanted—because that's one of his favorite techniques. Only if all of that failed would he think about running. And, yes, I know that, depending how mind-numbing he found his existence to be, he'd probably think about it. He is Neal, after all."

Mozzie nodded thoughtfully in agreement.

"Which is why I would never do it," Peter said with a sigh. "I'm not that stupid."

That made all of them smile.

"Unfortunately," Peter continued, "that leaves me with the same problem, with Neal being placed in dangerous positions and—"

"If it means anything, I can pretty much guarantee that Neal doesn't see that as a problem," Mozzie volunteered.

Peter's retort was instantaneous. "Exactly. Which is a big part _of_ the problem."

"Look, you can't change who Neal is—or what he does or doesn't see as a problem." Mozzie remarked. "You didn't make him who he is, and you can't change him. But you might be able to . . . channel him a bit more."

Peter shot a skeptical glance his way. "This is a technique that's worked for you?"

Mozzie shrugged. "I try." Then he added, "You need to talk to him. You, uh, may have a bigger influence on him than you think."

Peter had a look on his face that said he really wished that were true—but that he doubted it.

"When it comes to Neal—" Mozzie broke off abruptly, frowning. "You know, it basically kills me to admit this."

"Admit what?" Peter asked, curious now.

For a long moment, Mozzie didn't answer him. They all stared at him, waiting, and finally he spoke.

"When all of this—" Mozzie hesitated, waving a hand in the air, gesturing toward the four of them like he couldn't find the proper descriptive word, "when all of this _insanity_ started—"

Diana looked askance at him. "Define insanity," she demanded.

Mozzie aimed a stern glare in her direction. "Isn't it obvious? Neal Caffrey, the smartest guy I know—excluding myself, of course," Mozzie added quickly—"the man who can get whatever he wants, whenever he wants it, working for the _FBI_. A man who's used to flitting from one European capital to another on a whim is suddenly consenting to a two-mile radius. Reporting to an office every day like some nine-to-five drone. Letting a _fed _tell him what to do, for God's sake. Measuring out his life with coffee spoons—"

"Now he's going all poetic on us," Jones interjected, smirking.

"Poetic truth," Mozzie shot back.

"_That's _how you define insanity?" Diana challenged him. "Choosing that life over four more years in supermax doesn't sound like insanity to me."

"Well, obviously," Mozzie answered, rolling his eyes. "But I figured . . . I mean, naturally, I just assumed it was all a means to an end. He'd ingratiate himself—and play all of you."

"Ah. A long con," Jones summarized, looking at Peter, who showed no reaction.

Mozzie glanced at both of them. "Preferably a short one. He'd lay the groundwork for an escape, put his plan into motion, and then, one day, before long, when the time was right, he'd be gone. For good this time."

"And you—you were going to help him with that?" Peter asked. Elizabeth wondered if it was a function of how tired Peter was that there was no note of accusation in his voice. Nor did he sound surprised—_resigned _was more like it.

"Neal is not without resources," Mozzie said, with a small shrug. Which was a nifty side-step of an answer, worthy of Neal himself. At least Mozzie had the grace to look away when he said it.

Jones jumped in to steer the conversation in a slightly less awkward direction. "I think you're forgetting something, though. Neal's not exactly free to go where he pleases."

"Ah. You're referring to that—that twenty-first century shackle you tagged him with?" Mozzie scoffed. "A minor complication, to be snipped when he's ready." He looked around at all of them, surprise showing on his face. "Wait a minute. You don't actually think the reason Neal sticks around here, measuring out his life in coffee spoons, is because of his electronic tether, do you?"

The three agents exchanged a look.

"Um, it's . . . kind of important, yeah," Jones said, sounding confused. "Isn't it?"

"Because without it, he'd be in _prison_," Diana added in her best _isn't it obvious _voice.

"Yes, yes, I get that," Mozzie huffed. "Neal's _freedom _has been circumscribed to the point of nonexistence. He's at the mercy of the arbitrary and capricious machinations of the state. Which are scrupulously enforced by its loyal minions—" here he stopped to look meaningfully at the three of them, pointing a finger in their direction.

Peter shook his head and sighed, deciding to let Mozzie's unique description of the justice system slide, for the moment. "Minions. That's a new one."

"Hey, now that we're officially minions," Jones remarked, feigning excitement as he looked at Diana, "can we add that to our business cards?"

Mozzie glared. "Can I finish? As I was saying, yes, I am aware that the anklet is the reason Neal's not in prison. But the anklet is _not_ the reason that he's in New York."

A little silence followed, in which Jones and Diana exchanged a puzzled glance, while Peter locked eyes with Elizabeth for a long moment before returning his gaze to Mozzie's face.

Jones finally spoke. "If it's not the anklet, then—then what is it?"

Peter watched Mozzie's face and listened to the sound of Neal's voice inside his head—during that first case back after the plane exploded.

_I didn't want to run any more. I have a life here._

"What he's suggesting," Peter said slowly, feeling a little like he was revealing a confidence, a secret that wasn't his to tell, "is that maybe the reason Neal's here is . . . because he wants to be."

At that, Mozzie eyed him with grudging respect, Jones and Diana looked mildly surprised, and Elizabeth just smiled, a _cat ate the canary _kind of grin.

Jones cleared his throat. "But I thought—I mean, until Kate died, Neal was gonna get on that plane and leave."

"Oh. _Kate_." Mozzie's expression soured and Peter felt his mouth curving into a little smile at the confirmation of what he'd long suspected: that Mozzie's attitude toward Kate was pretty much the same as Peter's was. "Yes, Kate was part of why he was prepared to leave, no doubt about that. And her not being . . . around is part of why he might want to stay. But unfortunately, now, it's bigger than that."

"_Unfortunately_?" Diana echoed.

"Yes," Mozzie said impatiently. "Because, now, it's about _you_. All of you," he added, enunciating the words carefully, like you might when speaking to a child who was a little bit slow, and staring, with a hint of accusation in his gaze, at the four of them. "And unlike Kate, _you're_ not going anywhere. To make matters worse, you've co-opted him, somehow. Suborned him—"

"Hold on a minute. At Harvard Law," Jones pointed out, "we learned that suborning means inciting someone to commit a _crime_."

"_Or_ an act of _wrongdoing_," Mozzie shot back, undeterred, and Peter couldn't help smiling again. "Like conning a person into becoming someone else. And that's what's happened. You . . . you've enticed him. Seduced him—with your nine-to-five and your steady paycheck and your 401K and—"

"Neal doesn't get paid and he sure as hell doesn't get a 401K," Peter noted, trying to inject just a bit of reason into this conversation.

"Semantics," Mozzie spluttered. "You know what I mean."

"Only if you're willing to admit that this has nothing to do with hours or salary or . . . retirement plans," Peter replied. "Also," he added as an afterthought, "that Neal's way too smart to be conned by me. Or any of us."

Mozzie was quiet for a moment, and Peter thought maybe he wasn't going to answer at all.

"Okay," Mozzie said finally. "Perhaps _conning_ is too strong a word. But nevertheless, you have perfected the very technique of Neal's that you mentioned earlier."

"And what's that?" Peter inquired, all innocence (though he already knew the answer; he just wanted to hear Mozzie say it.)

Mozzie contemplated Peter with a look that could only be described as unwilling admiration. "You get Neal to do what _you_ want—by making him think it's what _he _wants."

Now Peter was the one wearing a _cat-ate-the-canary _smile. "By making Neal _realize _it's what he wants," he corrected. "An important distinction."

"Call it what you will," Mozzie sniffed. "Do you deny it?"

Peter didn't hesitate. "Of course not. If you'll stop denying that we—that all of this—might actually be _good _for Neal."

"Do I have to?" Mozzie asked, aggrieved.

"'_Nothing in this world is harder than speaking the truth,_'" Peter quoted in response, a little smile creeping across his face.

Mozzie's expression softened. "Dostoyevsky, eh? Doubling down on your Russian writers today, suit. Okay. It pains me, but yes. You want to hear me say it? The main reason that Neal isn't in Paris or Copenhagen or—you know, it's a very small town, but he's quite partial to Ravello . . . " Mozzie's voice drifted off as he pondered it, before resuming.

"The main reason he's still here is that—as much as it hurts to admit it—you give him something that he wants. That he maybe even . . . needs. And to go back to what I was saying earlier, if you take that away, out of some ill-advised attempt to encase Neal in . . . in the FBI equivalent of protective bubble-wrap, you might end up creating a whole new problem."

He ended by nodding in Peter's direction. The agent was about to answer when his phone rang. Peter took it out, checked the display.

"This is Agent Burke." He paused, listening. "That's great news, thank you. I'm in the cafeteria. I'll be right up."

Peter clicked off the phone and slid it into his pocket. "Neal's set up in the ICU. We can go see him now."

Mozzie had given him something to think about, for sure. But the conversation could wait, would have to. Because, finally, he was going to be able to see Neal.

* * *

The _idea_ of seeing Neal turned out to be a lot more comforting than the reality.

Because Neal looked as bad as you'd expect someone who'd been shot, suffered cardiac arrest, and undergone four hours of surgery to look. Maybe worse. He lay there, chalk-white and lifeless, eyes sunken, dwarfed by the whirring, beeping equipment that seemed to surround him. Tubes were snaking in and out of him, everywhere. Peter hadn't known it was possible to be hooked up to that many machines and monitors at one time, but Neal was. Rarely was Neal not the focal point of any room he was in, but now he looked small and almost barely there, strangely insubstantial. Truthfully, he looked like a stranger. Seeing him, Peter realized how rare it was for him to even catch Neal asleep, much less unconscious.

There was a tube in his nose that the nurse had explained would release air and drain fluid from the stomach until Neal's body was able to process these substances by itself again. Also, he was on a ventilator, and that, more than anything else, scared the living hell out of Peter, because his experience with ventilators—admittedly limited—was that they were a prelude to death. Peter tried not to think about that, tried to focus on the platitudes of the doctor that the machine was there to help and not the terror of knowing that his partner was considered too weak to breathe on his own right now.

Elizabeth already had taken a firm grip on his hand, but as he stood there looking silently at Neal, she squeezed tightly. Peter looked at her and she smiled back, then directed a significant glance at Neal.

He knew what she meant.

"Hey, Neal, it's me." Peter stopped and cleared his throat. His voice sounded rough and strange to his own ears. "Peter. And Elizabeth's here, too." He walked forward, close to the bed where Neal lay.

"Hi, Neal," Elizabeth chimed in, voice enthusiastic. She, at least, sounded like herself.

Peter reached out, touching Neal's hand lightly. It was abnormally cool, and Peter felt a little chill run through him at the contact. "The doctors fixed you up, and you're gonna be fine. You just need to . . . to be strong, okay? You've still got some healing to do, before you can be back bothering me. So you need to get started."

El smiled at him, then looked fondly down at Neal. "What he means to say, Neal, in his own very Peter-like way, is that he's going to miss you, so you need to get better fast."

Neal, of course, didn't react. He just lay there motionless, looking barely alive, as machines breathed for him and monitored every bodily function, every heartbeat.

They stayed with him for a short while, then waited outside while Jones, Diana, and Mozzie had quick visits with Neal as well.

When that was over, it was time to go. What felt like the longest day of Peter's life was, mercifully, coming to an end. But he knew, as they sat in the back of the cab taking them home, as he thought back to the sight of Neal, unconscious in the ICU, that the coming days only promised more of the same.

_TBC . . . ._

_Thanks for sticking with the story. If you have time to leave a bit of feedback, it's always much appreciated!_


	13. Your Weakest Spot

**Not a Fan of the Bittersweet**

**Chapter 13**

**Your Weakest Spot**

"_**I must say a word about fear. It is life's only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever, treacherous adversary, how well I know. It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy. It goes for your weakest spot, which it finds with unerring ease."**_

― Yann Martel, _Life of Pi _

..…..

With Neal in the ICU, the rhythms of Peter's daily existence were sharply altered. His days now revolved around shuttling between home, work, and the hospital, all the while worrying about his partner.

His anxiety over Neal was a constant thing, hovering in the background of his consciousness and then flaring up unexpectedly at the oddest times. Peter would be reading through a random file and then, all of a sudden, he'd start imagining what Neal might have to say about it and feel a sharp pang of distress because, right now, Neal could say nothing at all. Or he'd be running a meeting and then, out of nowhere, be abruptly struck by the sight of the empty chair where Neal would have been sitting. In those moments, Peter felt Neal's absence keenly, as if for the first time. Sometimes he'd flash back to memories from that day—_one dead, one wounded. _Neal's blood on the floor.

Neal, looking more dead than alive—then _and_ now.

He spent a lot of time forcing such thoughts from his mind, focusing on the task at hand, but it was harder than it should have been. The end result was that each day seemed more draining than the last, as if it had more than 24 hours in it, somehow. And each day was followed by a night of less-than-restful sleep,

Peter fell into a pattern of visiting Neal every day, often twice a day—on his way to work and then, for a longer time, on his way home. He was heartened at how often he found someone else keeping Neal company when he arrived—whether it be June, Diana, Jones or even Mozzie, who Peter knew was practically allergic to hospitals. Elizabeth visited, too; sometimes she accompanied Peter in the mornings when they left the house. More often, she'd stop by in the middle of the day, and call Peter with an update (not that there was any real change to report).

Patients in the ICU were allowed two visitors at a time. But despite that, when Peter came on the scene, whoever was there would usually make some excuse to depart soon after, as if there was some unspoken understanding that Peter should have Neal to himself. Peter didn't quite understand it, and he certainly didn't encourage it, but it just _was_.

Early on the second day, the doctors began to taper down the medication that was keeping Neal under. It was the best news Peter had had yet. The only problem was that Neal wasn't responding to it. He was still unconscious, still on the ventilator.

Which meant that Peter was still worried.

….

The ICU had all kinds of rules about visitation that the staff, for the most part, tacitly ignored—at least when it came to Peter, anyway. Most notable among these was the 15-minute time limit. When Peter came, he typically stayed for longer than that, but no one seemed to mind. He'd been careful, at first, to get to know the nurses and to be as unobtrusive as possible, but maybe it wouldn't have mattered. They let him stay as long as he wanted and never said a word. In fact, they seemed glad to have him there.

He started to bring files with him so that he could do some work. Because of his visits to Neal, Peter wasn't at the office quite as long as he would normally have been, so he felt obligated to work a bit while he sat with Neal. Hughes was very understanding—there was no issue there—but Peter didn't want to fall behind on his normal duties.

Also, having the files there gave Peter something to say as he talked to an unconscious Neal. That way, he could read to him, sometimes.

It was a cliché that you should speak to someone in Neal's state, because somehow, some way, they could hear you. But clichés attained that status for a reason, and Peter wasn't going to challenge convention when Neal's welfare was at stake. So he talked to Neal a lot.

At first, he felt ridiculously self-conscious, reading bits of case files out loud and chattering away about the latest office happenings to someone who was completely unresponsive (though as Melissa, one of his favorite nurses, reminded him, _unresponsive_ wasn't the same thing as _unaware_). At first, he'd stop when one of the staff came in, letting his voice die away and feeling sheepish. But they'd smile encouragingly and say things like, _don't stop on my account, Agent Burke_, or _I think he's waiting for you to finish that thought._

Sometimes Peter challenged his unconscious consultant, making ludicrous, provocative statements—just the kind of thing that Neal would have been congenitally unable to ignore had he been awake. Peter hoped it might help spur Neal to come back sooner, somehow.

The technique hadn't worked so far, but Peter was nothing if not persistent. He kept at it.

The second day, he dug up his original Caffrey file and brought it in—well, _part_ of it; Peter couldn't carry that much paper around New York City without throwing his back out. Referring to the file, he opined on some of the many crimes he was reasonably sure Neal had committed, but that, of course, Peter couldn't prove. It felt weird to openly accuse Neal of offenses and not have him counter with _alleged_ (one of his favorite words) and that sly smile that was automatic anytime his criminal past was brought up. In Peter's mind, he could hear the words and see the grin. He hoped Neal would be affronted enough to wake up and do it for real. But it didn't happen.

Peter wasn't much for speechifying under any circumstance, but particularly when things were this one-sided. As time went by, though, he got used to talking so much.

What he couldn't get used to was Neal not answering.

When they'd started working together, Peter had quickly learned that a silent Neal was cause for concern. Anything longer than momentary silence from Neal tended to signify either pouting or plotting—perhaps both. And in any case, the silence never lasted for long.

Then, after Kate's death, Neal's silence had worried Peter for very different reasons.

Once, as Peter was struggling to keep his soliloquy going, he stared at Neal, lying pale and motionless on the bed, and wished, yet again, that Neal would answer him. In that moment, he was jolted by the memory of that first day in the conference room, working on the case with Sara. She'd pulled out that damn pocket recorder and Neal had abruptly gone silent. Peter remembered Diana's little gibe. _I could get used to this._

The memory made him wince. Because now Neal was totally silent, and Peter knew he'd never, _ever_ get used to that.

…...

"—rumor has it Devlin says they're impossible to forge," Peter heard a dismissive—and very familiar—voice say as he approached Neal's bed in the ICU. It was the afternoon of the second day.

"Hah! Like _that_ means anything. Just because _he's_ not up to the task . . . " Mozzie sniffed. "I mean, obviously you and I both know one person, for sure, who can do the job. Of course, for that to happen, you're gonna have to wake up first. Then we can show that rat he doesn't know what he's talking about."

Listening, Peter smiled to himself. Everybody had their own idea about what would bring Neal around. And who was to say Mozzie's wasn't the best? Before he got any closer, Peter was careful to clear his throat. Loudly. (He also made a note to run the name _Devlin_, purely for curiosity's sake.)

The throat-clearing worked; Mozzie stopped talking abruptly, just before Peter caught sight of him. He glanced over and then back down at Neal. "I, uh, see that your suit's here, Neal, so I'll be going." Mozzie nodded at Peter. "Suit."

"Hey, Mozzie." Peter was about to ask how Neal was, but he swallowed back the words. He could already see that Neal looked the same as he had that morning. Unfortunately. "So, what are we talking about?"

"Oh, nothing. Just . . . this and that."

"You don't have to leave on my account," Peter said as Mozzie picked up his bag from the floor and stood up.

"No, it's okay. I've had my time, now you . . . you can have yours."

Peter watched him leave and then settled into the chair at Neal's bedside, surveying Neal and frowning at his pallor. But he didn't want to take a chance that Neal would pick up on his negativity, so Peter went for the easy conversational target.

"You know, Neal, if I didn't know better," he joked, "I'd say Mozzie doesn't want to spend time around me."

The hiss and beep of machines was his only answer. Though, Peter imagined, if Neal were awake, he'd smile wryly and say something like, _Don't take it personally. _

That was how it worked, now: Peter would say something and then mentally supply the response Neal would make if he were conscious. Even under normal circumstances, guessing how Neal would answer him was one of Peter's favorite pastimes—along with seeing if his prediction was right. The problem now, of course, was that he didn't get to know if his guesses were correct. And carrying on both sides of the conversation was wearying.

Also, not nearly as much fun.

"So, what's this unforgeable item that only you can copy?" Peter asked, keeping his voice deliberately casual.

This was where, if Neal were awake, he'd be caught off-guard (well, semi-off-guard, because it was hard to take Neal completely by surprise). Neal would give him that look that said, _so you heard that part, huh? _And then follow up with an answer that was a non-answer. Something like, _Mozzie tends to exaggerate a bit._

"He's a real piece of work," Peter observed.

Neal would chuckle and nod in agreement with that.

"By the way, Mozzie had some interesting things to say about you the other day."

That would make Neal instantly wary, Peter would be willing to bet. He didn't like being _discussed_.

Peter went on. "He said we've seduced you with our nine-to-five life and our 401K."

Neal would frown a little and say, _Yeah, well, Mozzie says a lot of things. I wouldn't take them all at face value._

It reminded Peter of the first time he'd met Mozzie. Neal hadn't been particularly happy about that, either.

_Come to think of it, Mozzie had talked about nine-to-fives and 401Ks that day, too._

The interesting thing about that night was that Peter had learned quite a bit about Mozzie—but he'd learned a few things about Neal, too.

* * *

Ironically enough, if he hadn't been (essentially) thrown out of the house by his loving wife, the whole encounter would never have happened.

Well, not quite. _Never _was the wrong word to use. As the two people in the world that Neal spent the most time with, Peter and Mozzie surely had been destined to meet at some point. But it only happened on that particular day because Peter had been temporarily kicked out of the house by Eizabeth.

Peter understood it, and he didn't mind. El's friend Dana was staying with them because her husband had been arrested—by Peter himself, no less. She was in the midst of an emotional crisis, and Peter, who already felt some minor guilt over his role in the whole thing, was more than willing to let her and Elizabeth have the house to themselves.

In an emotional crisis, no one was better than Elizabeth; Peter was happy to share her and he accepted his removal with good grace. Plus, it wasn't as if he didn't have any place else to go; in fact, Peter already had a destination in mind.

He just needed to stop at the liquor store first.

….

Peter was betting that on a weeknight, Neal would be at home. He could have called the marshals' office to verify Neal's whereabouts. Or he could simply have called his consultant to let him know he was on his way over.

But Peter did neither. He didn't believe in bothering the marshals' office with trivialities, and as for calling Neal . . . well, Peter didn't want to give him an excuse to beg off. He was hoping, with Neal's help, to make some serious headway on the case and figure out how to clear Dana's husband.

And he had to admit: he was curious to see what Neal might be up to when he was alone during his off hours. Peter had never really spent any time in Neal's apartment, after all. No time like the present . . . .

Having been let into the house by June's housekeeper, Peter mounted the stairs and banged on Neal's door with the bottle of wine he'd bought in deference to Neal's tastes. Peter was no etiquette expert, but even he knew that guests should bring a gift—especially uninvited ones. The two six-packs of Peter's favorite beer were in his other hand. Peter knew, even at this early stage of their partnership, that Neal wasn't much of a beer drinker, and that if he did have any in his fridge, it was likely to be some pretentious microbrew that barely counted as beer in Peter's mind. The second six-pack was probably a bit of overkill, but why not have a supply, he'd thought - so there'd be plenty for the next time . . . and this way, it would be chilled, which was, of course, critical.

Some people would have said he was being presumptuous, but Peter viewed it as merely being practical. Neal would surely have something to say about it, though—Peter was certain of that. (Actually, Peter was kind of looking forward to that part.)

His first clue that something was amiss came as soon as Neal opened the door. His consultant looked surprised—more than he should. True, Peter hadn't called ahead, but his showing up on Neal's doorstep shouldn't be that much of a shock.

Peter eyed him curiously. "Expecting somebody?"

Neal stared back at him. "Not at—not at all."

And that was clue number two. Neal, who could keep his cool even with a gun pointed at his head, was not only visibly uncomfortable at the mere sight of Peter standing at his door, but he'd actually _stuttered. _Neal, he of the high panic threshold and the silver tongue, never stuttered.

Which, to Peter, meant he was probably hiding something.

Neal was so discomfited, it was almost enough to make Peter afraid that he'd walk into the apartment and find a bunch of newly printed counterfeit money on the table or something. He shoved the wine at Neal and walked right past to check, only then hearing him say faintly, "Come . . . right on in."

As he made his way to the fridge, beer in hand, Peter did a quick scan, relieved to see no evidence of counterfeiting or forgery of any kind. Yet Neal certainly seemed on edge. Like he'd been expecting someone else, someone who would make him nervous.

_And he still hadn't commented on the six packs . . . ._

Momentarily, Peter considered the idea that Neal might have invited a girl over—a prostitute, maybe?—but he dismissed that out of hand. If guys like Neal wanted companionship, they didn't hire escorts. They went to bars (and not the kinds of bars frequented by hookers, either), where they'd wait for manna to fall from heaven, so to speak. Or so Peter assumed.

So—no visible signs of crime and no hookers. The bed looked neat, which meant there was probably no paramour hiding in the closet. So why was Neal so nervous?

Peter decided not to push it.

Then a knock sounded at the door, and it soon became clear that Neal had been less than truthful when he said he wasn't expecting anyone. Neal's fibbing was the bad news. The good news, which Peter found strangely comforting, was that professional con artist Neal Caffrey turned into something approaching a rank amateur when Peter was the mark. _Something of a silver lining . . . ._

Peter had known about Neal's mysterious friend, of course, but not nearly as much as he wanted to know. He knew the guy was smart, that he'd provided useful information more than once. Peter assumed that the man was a crook—admittedly, a crook who'd never been caught and who was so low-profile he probably wasn't even on law enforcement's radar—but a crook, nonetheless. People who'd lived the kind of life Neal had tended not to have too many law-abiding friends.

He also knew that Neal had been very, very careful to make sure Peter didn't know much about the guy. To make sure their paths never crossed.

Until now. Now, when the idea of an unexpected encounter between the two of them was enough to put Neal, the smoothest of liars, completely off his game.

Neal's atypical jumpiness suddenly made a whole lot more sense. The man at the door had to be Neal's friend, whom Neal had apparently (against Peter's orders), called so he could follow up on the pawnshop ticket he'd lifted from Alisha Teagen's desk. _The ticket I took from him, _Peter thought, then realized that, of course, Neal had kept a copy, because he was, after all, Neal.

_Damnit._

At first, Peter sat, back to the door, while Neal and Mozzie (Peter didn't know the name at first, but he learned it soon enough) tried to sell the world's lamest cover story, concocted on the fly by Neal. Something about Mozzie being a neighbor who'd come to see June. Although, to be honest, it wasn't the cover story that was lame—it was Mozzie's feeble execution of it. After all, he'd already blurted out his reason for being there, which Peter had heard because he was not, well . . . deaf.

Peter's initial impression was incredulity—at how slow on his feet Neal's friend seemed to be, given that he was, in theory, an accomplished con artist. (Maybe, but he was no Neal, that was for sure.)

_I could ignore it, _Peter thought as he sat there listening. Neal was obviously trying to preserve his friend's anonymity—and maybe some of his own, as well. Peter could, very easily, do nothing and just let Neal send the man away.

_But why should I? _That was Peter's practical, FBI-agent side speaking up. _Who knows when a chance like this will come again?_

The truth was, Peter made it his business to know about the people in Neal's life. He considered it part of his responsibility where Neal was concerned. And he'd been dying to meet this guy.

Peter mulled it over for a few more seconds, and decided this was an opportunity he could not pass up.

Mozzie was about to beat a hasty retreat as Peter arrived at the doorway. Neal, in the act of closing the door, was forced to pull it back. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter could see Neal close his eyes and press his head against the wood for a moment.

Almost as if he wanted to bang his head against it. Or as if he couldn't bear to watch what was about to happen. Or, more likely, both.

Peter took charge immediately. (He was already enjoying this way more than he should.) "Hang on a second. Who are you?"

Thus began another awkward sequence where Mozzie confirmed that he had none of Neal's glibness, stumbling all over himself as he tried, very clumsily, to invent an off-the-cuff pseudonym and then claimed that he was dating June. Neal, meanwhile, just stood there silently with a glazed-over look in his eyes, frozen in place and leaning on the half-open door like it was the only thing holding him up.

Like he, too, couldn't believe how bad Mozzie was at this.

Mentally rolling his eyes, Peter didn't let it last long. Really, he'd just wanted to make sure they both knew that he wasn't even remotely close to buying their bullshit.

"You really wanna keep this up?" Peter asked, cutting a sideways glance at Neal.

Neal's response was immediate. "No, I don't. You're right." He'd recognized the futility of their charade, and he wasn't any more interested in carrying on with it than Peter was.

It was a small thing, but any time he and Neal were on the same page - like now - Peter always felt unaccountably pleased.

With that done, Peter was willing to go a step further: to make a quick concession and accept the fiction of Mozzie as Haversham.

Once again, he could tell that he'd surprised Neal. Maybe Neal had expected him to pull out his badge and start a mini-interrogation. But Peter had decided that, at that moment, he wasn't a federal agent talking to a likely criminal—he was just a guy talking to a friend of a friend. And he did it because he was just too absurdly curious about not only Mozzie – the first friend of Neal's he'd ever met (well, not counting Kate) – but also the perspective that Mozzie could provide about Neal. It was an opportunity Peter could not resist.

As much as Peter liked to think he knew everything about Neal, the truth was that he still had a lot to learn. He'd chased the man for years, studied him from afar, but he'd only been supervising him for a short time. He was still figuring out what made Neal tick, what motivated him.

"Come on in," Peter said to the man, adding, "Thought you'd be taller."

"Me too."

"Well, you're here. Have a drink."

Peter smiled gleefully to himself as he returned to the fridge. He'd assumed Neal's friend would be like Neal. Which showed the folly of making assumptions of any kind where Neal was concerned.

"Oh, no, I, uh . . . don't drink," That was Mozzie's voice, but Peter, who had his back turned, would bet a hundred dollars that the remark was mostly Neal's doing. He recognized it for what it was: Neal's last, valiant effort to cut this meeting short and head off what he clearly saw as a disaster in the making.

"Well, you do tonight," Peter shot back.

A momentary pause, and then Mozzie acquiesced without an ounce of hesitation. "Gin's good."

Neal didn't want the two of them in the same room, even. But Mozzie felt differently. Apparently he was as curious about Peter as Peter was about him.

_So he and Neal's friend had something in common, after all._

...

Their little group of three was surprisingly relaxed, surprisingly convivial. Although it had devolved into more of a twosome. Neal sat at the far end of the table, hands folded, not doing much drinking or talking. Instead he was watching them with a guarded look on his face.

Peter was careful to tread lightly, mindful of Neal's wariness. And he didn't want to spook Mozzie, but that turned out not to be an issue. With a few drinks in him, Mozzie was—well, not drunk, Peter decided, but just a little buzzed. Enough that he was quite voluble on everything from Kate (Peter felt bad about that part, because he knew this was a sensitive topic for Neal) to his philosophy of life—which, he insisted, put a premium not on money but on freedom.

It didn't escape Peter's notice that Neal was mostly silent during Mozzie's little speech about the unimportance of _stuff._ When Mozzie expounded about how the only thing that mattered was being free to live his way, Neal was the one who pointed out that his friend had lived in a storage unit.

"But I lived there, man," Mozzie insisted stubbornly, voice dripping with conviction. "I _lived_."

Peter exchanged a smile with Neal. Then he looked around the spacious apartment, with its eclectic but tasteful furnishings, with its wall of windows leading to a private rooftop terrace that featured a million-dollar view of New York, before returning his gaze to Neal's face.

It did not look like the face of a man who'd be content living in a storage unit—no matter how much freedom he might have there.

In that moment, another potential piece of the Neal Caffrey puzzle fell into place for Peter. For Mozzie, it might not be about the finer things in life, but Neal had an obvious appreciation for creature comforts. What Peter needed to do was help Neal see that he didn't have to lie, cheat, or steal to get them—that there were better ways, honest ways, to get the things he wanted.

That night, for the first time, thanks to Mozzie, Peter had wondered if maybe, just maybe, Neal could be talked into some version of a nine-to-five and a 401K, after all.

Mozzie would, no doubt, have been horrified by the mere suggestion. But Peter found it to be remarkably encouraging.

* * *

On the afternoon of the third day, Peter, just about ready to leave the office for the day, was busy answering his remaining emails when a voice made him look up.

"Getting ready to head out?"

Reese Hughes stood there, briefcase in hand, obviously on _his _way out.

"Yeah, just finishing up a few emails. Did you need something?"

"No, I just thought . . . if you were leaving, that I'd join you."

"Oh," Peter said, a little surprised. His boss's company was always welcome, but rare. "Sure. But I'm, uh, going to visit Neal."

Hughes gave him an impatient look. "Yes, Peter, I'm aware. You usually stop by in the afternoon on your way home, right?"

Peter nodded, feeling slightly foolish for not catching on sooner. Of course, his boss knew Peter's routine.

"Well, I figured I'd come along. Unless you don't—"

"No, no, Neal's allowed two visitors at a time." Peter stared at Hughes, feeling a rush of emotion that had sneaked up from nowhere. "Sure. That's great. But, you know," he couldn't help adding, "Neal's not awake yet."

"Again, Peter, yes, I'm aware." Hughes rolled his eyes. "He wasn't awake when you updated me this morning. And since the work day was not interrupted for a celebratory toast, followed by you hightailing it over to the hospital, I'm assuming he hasn't woken up yet, either."

Peter chuckled at the accuracy of that statement, as his boss smiled.

"Anyway," Hughes said, "the fact that he isn't awake yet isn't keeping _you _from visiting him."

Peter couldn't argue with that.

Hughes gestured toward him briskly. "So let's go. The emails can wait 'til tomorrow."

Peter did as he was told.

…

"Hard seeing him like this," Hughes remarked, frowning as they stood on opposite sides of Neal's bed in the ICU.

Peter nodded. "I can't get used to it. Every time I walk in here, it's just so . . . jarring. And now, they're cutting back on his medication, so he should be waking up, but so far . . . nothing."

"He will," Hughes said, eyes fixed on Neal's slack face. "Major trauma like that, it takes time to recover from. I knew a cop, years ago, who got shot. Took him over a week to wake up, but he was fine in the end."

Peter knew that his boss was trying to be positive, but the thought of living through another week-plus of this stress was, to Peter's mind, far from comforting.

Hughes paused, eyeing Peter speculatively. "If you think it'd help, I could try to scare him into waking up. That is," he added, "if you think I might actually have the capability to scare Caffrey."

Peter pondered it for a moment, smiling in spite of himself. "Neal's not scared of much, but he certainly . . . respects you. Couldn't hurt."

Hughes leaned down, gazing at the patient. "_Neal!" _He barked it loudly and sharply enough to make even Peter jump. Peter was more than a little impressed that his boss could generate that patented, half-peremptory, half-exasperated, tone, with no provocation whatsoever.

Or maybe that was just testament to how much of a pain Neal was—that Hughes could conjure up his customary annoyance without a second thought.

"I know you've had a rough time here, Neal," Hughes continued, very no-nonsense, his eyes never leaving Neal's face. "But it's time to wake up now. Keep this up, and you're going to set a really bad example for the probies."

Peter suppressed a smile as Hughes earnestly lectured Neal for another minute or two about the necessity of coming around in short order, so that he could fulfill his duties to the FBI, to the White Collar unit in general, and to Peter in particular. Neal didn't respond, not even a little bit, but Peter had to admit that he himself had enjoyed the hell out of it.

"Well, maybe it'll sink in over time," Hughes finally said, admitting defeat with a frown.

"You tried," Peter assured him, nodding solemnly and wishing he'd had the foresight to surreptitiously record Hughes' little speech for posterity; Neal would have found it highly amusing.

They sat down and chatted about work-related items, about a couple of the newer agents and some ongoing investigations. When the conversation died out, Hughes surprised him with an abrupt change of subject.

"Got a question for you, Peter."

"Sure."

"How committed do you think Neal is to working with us?" Hughes asked, causing Peter to look up sharply.

"That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question," Peter said, sighing. "I told you, after we got his deal reinstated, that Neal said he didn't want to run anymore." He'd filled Hughes in on the details of their little conversation during the Walker case, thinking it would help assuage any lingering concerns his boss had about getting Neal back out of prison and back on the anklet again.

"You did. But I sensed some healthy skepticism on your part."

Peter managed a wry smile; leave it to Reese to pick up on that. "It wasn't a long discussion. But I think he meant it. At the time, anyway."

Hughes nodded thoughtfully.

"Of course, maybe now, after this—" Peter gestured around the little cubicle, at his unconscious partner and the machines that encircled him, "maybe he'd feel differently."

"I doubt it," Hughes answered. "Neal's a risk-taker, Peter. You know that."

"That's part of the problem, though." Peter could hear the frustration in his own voice. "He goes too far, and I have to reign that in, I—"

"_Neal _has to do that, too. You're supervising him, Peter, but you can't control him completely. And when you're in our business, no matter how careful you are, sometimes people get hurt. We all have to accept that."

Peter shrugged.

"Neal's an adult," Hughes went on. "He's been around the block. Multiple times. Hell, Neal's probably sneaked around the block multiple times without being seen, then cased the art gallery at the _end_ of the block—" he broke off upon seeing the ghost of a smile on Peter's face. "Well, you get the idea. Neal knows what he's doing and I think he actually has a very clear understanding of the concept of risk. Maybe more than you realize. He understands that things happen, that sometimes prices have to be paid."

"We end up putting Neal in some very dangerous positions," Peter replied, not willing to give on this particular point. "I've been concerned for a while that things are . . . going too far. On his side—_and_ ours. And I'm not sure it's right, Reese."

Hughes studied him, letting out a long sigh. "I'm sure you remember how . . . hesitant I was to agree to this deal with Neal."

Peter chuckled. "_Hesitant _is actually not how I remember it. _Dead-set against it _is more how I remember it."

"Fair enough. You want to know why I agreed to it in the end?"

"Temporary insanity?" Peter suggested.

Hughes grimaced. "Sometimes I've thought so, but no."

Peter waited, curious now.

His boss stared down at Neal once more. "It had very little to do with Neal. I didn't trust him any further than I could throw him—and, the truth is, sometimes I still feel that way. No, I agreed to it because of you, Peter. This would never work without you."

Hughes looked Peter in the eye, his expression softening. "For a whole bunch of reasons, there are very, very few people I would trust to handle Neal. You're one of the few. Maybe the only one. And what's just as important is that I'd be willing to bet Neal feels the same way."

"When you start doubting yourself, Peter," Hughes continued, "remember that."

….

After Reese took his leave, Peter was alone with Neal once more.

In those times, when it was just the two of them, much of Peter's chatter involved updates on cases, some he and Neal had been working on, some cold, and a few that were new and to which Neal hadn't yet lent his expertise. Peter hoped fervently that Neal would be doing that before too long. He'd summarize the facts and his own theories for Neal, trying to imagine what his consultant would say, what angle he would suggest they take. Being Neal, he'd probably have his own unique spin on the investigation—something that would take Peter's analysis and build on it, yet going in a different direction. Subconsciously Peter had known for quite some time that he and Neal worked well together—that they complemented each other—and yet he'd kind of forgotten what it was like to work without Neal. He'd kind of taken for granted how good it was, how much things just flowed when he and Neal were working toward a common goal.

Again, he was reminded of how much he missed it. And there was another cliché for you—the one about not knowing what you've got until it's gone.

He was honest enough to admit to himself the reality of their partnership: though Peter been a very good agent long before Neal came into the picture—and still was—Peter was better with Neal than without him.

One day, impulsively, Peter even told Neal that. It was kind of daring—the type of remark he'd never make to Neal when he was awake. Because Neal would find a way to use it against him, at just the right moment, when he needed Peter to do something, or _not do _something. Or overlook something. Whatever.

He didn't say it again. It sounded too maudlin. Plus, the whole point of the endless blathering was the implicit understanding that Neal _was_, on some level, hearing him. If he started saying things with the expectation that Neal _wasn't _hearing them, it changed the dynamic into something much less palatable. This was about trying to create reality for Neal, not about dragging him out of it.

_And it definitely wasn't about saying things to Neal in case he didn't get another chance. _Or so Peter resolutely told himself.

Because the situation wasn't that dire. Everyone assured him of that—all the nurses, all the doctors assured him that Neal was getting better and would wake up when he was ready. He needed time to heal, he'd be better off in the end for the time he'd spent under.

Peter wanted to believe, of course. But he wasn't exactly the trusting type, and doctors were human, just like everybody else. They could make mistakes. They could be wrong. Peter had a vivid memory of a favorite uncle, diagnosed with cancer when Peter was a teenager, and of being assured that the disease was treatable. The assurances had been followed by a funeral six months later. The cancer had been much more aggressive than what the initial tests indicated. Peter had maintained a healthy skepticism about the medical profession ever since.

So, yes, they assured him that this was normal, that Neal's condition was improving, but Peter was an FBI agent, trained to seek evidence in everything, and the tangible evidence of Neal's progress was, to Peter's eye, lacking. Every day that Neal spent in the ICU, unconscious and still looking, to Peter's eyes, like death warmed over, the little kernel of doubt grew in his gut.

The waiting and worrying took a toll. Elizabeth fussed over his lack of appetite and though she hadn't said anything, he knew she was all too aware that he wasn't sleeping well. He felt permanently exhausted, and once or twice he'd even nodded off at Neal's bedside, only to be jarred awake by the entrance of a nurse, smiling at him sympathetically as she checked on Neal. Falling asleep during the day just wasn't something that Peter did, but he was doing it now, and with disconcerting frequency. And even at night, despite the fatigue, his sleep was restless. The constant tiredness alarmed him enough that he actually considered taking sleeping pills—another thing Peter Burke just didn't do.

He wasn't spending as much time with Elizabeth, either. These days, he left home earlier and got there later, because of the time spent at the ICU. When he got home after visiting the hospital, they'd eat—well, Peter would make a show of eating, more often than not—and sometimes they'd curl up in front of the TV, Peter struggling not to doze off.

…...

The third night, he woke up, uncertain where he was, before realizing he was on the couch, alone. Elizabeth had done what she could. She'd removed his shoes, tucked a pillow under his head and a spare quilt around him, and left him there.

She never liked for him to sleep on the couch, but he knew she'd been probably been loath to disturb whatever rest he could manage. No doubt she'd say as much the next morning when he apologized.

Peter stumbled upstairs, changed his clothes, and climbed into bed as quietly as he could. When Elizabeth didn't wake up, he counted it as a victory. No sense in both of them lying awake at two in the morning. He couldn't resist spooning up behind her, though, as she lay on her side, breathing evenly and deeply. She let out a contented-sounding sigh, leaning back into him a bit, and he lay there, trying not to think about Neal, about what would happen if he didn't wake up.

Sleep was a long time coming.

…...

When he did nod off, his dreams sometimes woke him up again. He hadn't said anything to Elizabeth, but he had a sneaking suspicion that she knew.

Starting that first night, after they'd left Neal in the ICU, he had a dream—some people might have called it a nightmare, but not Peter Burke—where he was looking for Neal. In the dream, which quickly became a recurring one, Peter found himself in an unfamiliar, virtually empty building that had that haunted-house quality of a thousand unimaginative horror movies, the ones where moronic teenagers did stupid things and deserved their gory fates. As he made his way through the enormous house, despite the lack of any overt threats, Peter couldn't shake an unmistakable sense of foreboding that something dangerous lurked around every corner, behind every closed door.

Adding to his misgivings was the fact that he couldn't find Neal.

The house consisted mainly of long, straight hallways lined on both sides with heavy wooden doors that were closed, but unlocked. Peter quickly discovered that behind each closed door was a room that was dusty and mostly empty; the few furnishings present were covered in drop cloths that looked like threadbare old bedsheets. One room looked pretty much like the next, and the overall feel was of a place that had been abandoned, possibly for years. Certainly there didn't seem to be any people in the house, except for him and Neal.

Neal, whom he couldn't seem to find.

Peter, who knew very well how to conduct a search, worked his way down the hall methodically, opening each door so that he could check every room for his errant partner. He and Neal had come there together—it wasn't a _damnit, Neal ran again and I have to chase him _scenario. But the dream always started in _medias res_, so Peter didn't know why the two of them were there or what they'd been looking for. He did know that somewhere along the way, they'd gotten separated and that he couldn't find Neal.

It was night and the house was dark, except where moonlight spilled in through the dirty, curtainless windows in each room. Fortunately, dream-Peter had had the foresight to bring a flashlight, though its tiny beam was all but swallowed up by the darkness when he returned to the corridor.

Through the large windows in every room, Peter could see outside to a flat, stark landscape of scrubby, mostly barren trees, tall grass, and a winding, semi-overgrown driveway that looked eerie in the dim moonlight. There were no other buildings, no people, no cars. Something about the isolation of it all made Peter uneasy. The house was definitely not in the city; in fact, the scenery didn't resemble anything that Peter had ever seen in New York, even upstate. Frankly, it looked like the English moor, like something out of _Wuthering Heights _(one of Elizabeth's favorite movies).

He forced his mind back to the task at hand. Neal couldn't be far away; he hadn't been gone that long. Had he? Though it wasn't hard to imagine what might have attracted his attention. Some of the rooms had expensive-looking oil paintings hanging on the walls in heavy gold frames, and it would be just like Neal to get caught up in admiring the art (_or imagining how he'd steal/forge it_, a voice in Peter's mind said) and end up wandering away, losing track of time.

Sometimes he could hear Neal's voice, say, _I'm right here, Peter. Where are you? _ His tone always started off teasing, just a little sarcastic, apparently delighting in the fact that, for once, Peter couldn't find him. But as Peter continued his fruitless search, Neal's voice would grow fainter, as if he were further away, and there was more tension in it, as if something was wrong but Neal was trying to pretend otherwise. Peter knew what carefree-Neal sounded like, and, conversely, what concerned-Neal sounded like. The differences were almost imperceptible, and most people would never have known, but Peter did. He'd sat in the van listening to audio feeds of Neal undercover often enough. Peter had made it a point to train himself to recognize the subtle vocal cues that his consultant was adept at hiding. Because, one day, Neal's life might depend on Peter being able to recognize those little nuances that meant something was wrong.

The question was whether today was such a day. Peter didn't know for sure. All he knew was that Neal was worried—which meant that Peter was, too.

Peter would call back to him, then, asking where he was, but Neal would just say,_ Upstairs_. Problem was, there was a seemingly unlimited supply of upstairs rooms.

In the dream, as his anxiety grew, Peter would not only scan each room, but he'd also start to warily eye the cloths that covered the furniture. Neal couldn't be hiding under one of those, could he? Playing some kind of prank? Taunting Peter with a game of hide-and-seek?

_If he is, _dream-Peter thought heatedly, _he's gonna see what it feels like to have a two-block radius instead of two miles . . . ._

Just to be thorough, he'd flip back the coverings, stirring up clouds of dust that threatened to choke him. Peter would have to turn his head away and cover his mouth, coughing and trying to breathe through his nose. As the dust dissipated, he'd turn back to verify what he already knew: under the drop cloth, inevitably, was a chair or a table or some other old, ornate piece of furniture. But no Neal.

He got a major shock when, one time, he flung open yet another door only to see Mozzie sitting very straight on a chair, eyes closed, hands at his sides with the palms facing upward. He appeared to be meditating.

Peter took a few steps into the room. Upon hearing footfalls, Mozzie cracked one eye open, looking not surprised but merely annoyed. "Ever heard of knocking, suit?"

In accordance with the strange internal logic of dreams, it didn't occur to Peter to wonder why Mozzie would be meditating in an empty room in a dark, deserted house that appeared to have been transported straight from the pages of a Gothic novel. No, dream-Peter had one singular focus, which he wasted no time getting to. "Where's Neal?"

Mozzie opened his other eye and squinted at Peter, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Mozzie, I need to know. Now."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Mozzie replied, sarcastic and unperturbed. "I was just savoring the irony of the man who fitted Neal with a tracking anklet asking _me _where he is."

_Smart ass. _

Peter fixed him with a mild glare. "You can savor your irony later. Right now, I need you to answer the question."

"You're his keeper. Not me." There was something damning in Mozzie's tone that made dream-Peter want to recoil from the undeniable truth of the words.

"Can you at least tell me if you've seen him?"

"'_Ask and it shall be given to you,_'" Mozzie intoned, closing his eyes again. "_'Seek and ye shall find; knock and the door shall be opened to you.'"_

Peter sighed. His faint hope of gleaning something useful from this conversation was fading fast. (When Peter woke up and reviewed the dream in his mind, he couldn't help thinking about how very how unsurprising it was that dream-Mozzie was every bit as exasperating as the real Mozzie—and just as prone to spouting off annoying quotes.)

In the dream, though, Peter didn't think about that. Because, of course, he didn't know he was dreaming. Instead, he tried one more time, spurred by a growing sense of desperation. "This is important, Mozzie. I think Neal is . . . lost and he might be in trouble."

At that, Mozzie's eyes shot open, alight with anger. "_Lost? _You lost him?" His voice was thick with accusation—and disappointment. "But . . . you told me you'd keep an eye on Neal. You _promised._"

That jab hit Peter like a punch to the gut. Because now Mozzie was quoting _him_. Quoting their conversation in the park that day, about Neal. And he was right: Peter _had_ promised.

_I'm trying to protect him, _he'd said. _I'm his friend, too. I'll keep an eye on him._

Peter swallowed hard.

"Or," Mozzie said, "maybe not." His anger was gone; now he just sounded philosophical. "This is Neal we're talking about. He doesn't get lost—not in the conventional sense of the word. More likely, he just doesn't want to be found." Mozzie shrugged. "It was only a matter of time, suit. Not your fault."

Being absolved of blame might have made Peter feel better—if it hadn't been coupled with Mozzie's casual assumption that Neal had vanished of his own accord. Because if that was true, then everything Neal had said about having a life in New York was a lie.

Neal had said he wanted to stay, and Peter wanted to believe it was true. He opened his mouth to challenge Mozzie's statement, but before he could say a word, Peter heard a noise close behind him. In the hallway.

The sound of floorboards creaking. Then Peter felt the air move, felt a cool draft blow across the back of his neck. Someone was outside the door.

It was proof of how on edge he was that Peter was reaching for his weapon before he even turned around. He hesitated before sliding the gun out of its holster, though. The house was deserted, which meant that, in all likelihood, the person standing behind him was Neal. The last thing Peter wanted to be doing was pointing a gun at his partner. Especially when he was feeling this jumpy.

_And if it's not Neal? _a warning voice in his mind whispered. _What then?_

Peter always trusted his gut, so, in deference to his own sense of foreboding, he compromised. He didn't draw, but he did keep kept his hand on his weapon, just in case, as he whirled around and took two quick strides to the door.

The hallway was pitch-black. He shined his little flashlight up and down, right and left, all his senses on alert.

"Neal?"

Empty. No one was there. Had he imagined the sound?

After assuring himself that the corridor was deserted, Peter turned back toward the room. "Mozzie, did you hear—"

The room, just like the hallway, was empty. Well, except for the chair that sat in the middle of the floor. Under a dustcover that very definitely had not been there before.

Mozzie was gone.

Had Peter imagined him, too? The thought was alarming, but there was no time to dwell on it, because he needed to find Neal. Finding Neal was the important thing; right now, it was the only thing that mattered. So dream-Peter forgot all about Mozzie as he marched back out into the hallway, to the next door. And kept going.

In longer versions of the dream, some of the doors opened onto brick walls (Peter was almost ashamed that he'd dream in such trite, B-movie clichés). Or, he'd reach the end of the hallway, open the last door, and return to the corridor to find, heart sinking, that there were more doors after all. Then dream-Peter would start running from one door to the next, feeling the first vestiges of real fear.

It was at that point in the dream that Neal stopped answering him altogether. And that was when Peter began to think about the fact that many of the rooms he'd searched had closets which that he hadn't bothered to check. Well, of course he hadn't bothered to open every closet door. The very idea was ridiculous. Neal wasn't running from him. He wouldn't be in a closet.

_Unless someone put him there, _a paranoid voice inside his head whispered, sending a little chill down his spine.

Once he opened a door to find Neal's hat and his FBI ID—but no Neal. Most of the time, though, there was nothing. No monsters—human or otherwise. No ghosts or blood or menacing killers wearing hockey masks. Nothing even really that scary—except for the growing realization that Neal was lost and that, for once, Peter was incapable of finding him.

Which turned out to be pretty damned scary after all.

In the dream, he never found Neal, of course. He'd wake up feeling tense and unsettled, breathing just a little too hard, and with an inexplicable desire to call the ICU and confirm that Neal hadn't somehow disappeared, that he was still there and okay—well, relatively okay.

Peter never followed through on that, though the urge was disturbingly strong. It was sort of an FBI rule of thumb (albeit an unwritten rule) that agents didn't make panicky 4 a.m. phone calls because they were in the throes of a bad dream.

After a particularly disturbing iteration of the dream—Neal had actually sounded panicked in this one—Peter woke, with his heart racing, to a gray day and an empty bed. He had a moment of confusion before remembering that Elizabeth had gone to oversee an early event. Peter sighed at the realization that he'd been sleeping so deeply he hadn't even heard her leave. He imagined her tiptoeing around, trying not to wake him up, and frowned at the thought. Any morning where he didn't get to kiss his wife goodbye was, by Peter's definition, not a good morning.

Momentarily, he considered staying in bed a while, but rejected the idea. He already knew he wasn't going to be able to go back to sleep. Even if he did, he'd probably just end up having the dream again, and he was really sick and tired of looking for Neal in that damned house. Might as well get up, then, he decided. He could get to the hospital earlier than usual and spend a little extra time with Neal before he went to the office. Feeling sluggish and tired, Peter performed his morning ablutions and got dressed.

The thought of having coffee and breakfast at home by himself didn't appeal. He wasn't hungry anyway, and he could get coffee at the hospital. _Or nearby_, he thought . . . the hospital coffee tasted like it had been brewed in 2001 and kept on a warmer ever since.

Peter drove to the hospital on autopilot, bleary-eyed. The city streets were overlaid with a thin layer of pre-dawn mist, traffic was light, and the world felt almost unreal, insubstantial. The tiredness and the strange dreams were playing havoc with his senses. If things didn't change, Peter realized grimly, he might have to reconsider his refusal to take sleeping pills.

Before he knew it, he was out of the elevator at the ICU. Peter walked through the doors, noting the typical early-morning quiet of the ward. There were few visitors at this time of day. _Probably because visiting hours hadn't technically started yet. _

He walked past the deserted nurse's station and into Neal's cubicle.

And stopped dead. The bed was empty.

Peter stood there staring, unable to comprehend the sight. Neal had been moved? Maybe to a regular room? That would be good news, great news, actually, except . . . why hadn't they told him?

"Agent Burke?"

A hand touched his shoulder, very lightly, and he spun around to find Melissa standing there with one of the doctors. Her hand dropped away as her eyes met his, and he thought for an instant that his heart had stopped beating at the look he saw there. She froze, the horror in her eyes turning instantly into pity.

The doctor spoke, voice soft. The kind of voice people used only when they were delivering the worst news possible. "Agent Burke, I'm so sorry. We tried to call you."

Peter's phone was already in his hand; automatically, he glanced down at the display, at the icon that indicated he had a voicemail. Several, actually. _Why didn't I hear the phone ring? _

_You were asleep. You didn't even hear El leave, because you were up half the night and then the goddamned dream, where Neal was lost and—_

"—when Mr. Caffrey suffered a massive heart attack . . . ."

Terror spread through him then, cold and numbing. A rushing sound filled his ears. Still looking down at the phone, Peter noticed that the hand that held it was shaking. He couldn't feel it, though, which was odd. It was if he were looking at someone else's hand, as if it didn't belong to him.

"- assure you, Agent Burke, we did everything we could," the doctor was saying. Sounding so kind, so _fucking _solicitous. As if that mattered, as if it would help. "But we weren't able to save him—"

"No," Peter said, resolutely. Like saying it could make it so. "No, it can't be. He's getting better, you said so, he's . . . ."

"We started seeing a downgrade in his vital signs about an hour ago -"

Peter took in a breath. Or tried. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room in an instant.

_Like in that damn vault. Neal, looking into his eyes, not panicked, but confident. Peter, I trust you.  
_

_You got my back, right?  
_

_" - _and then he began experiencing cardiac abnormalities—"

_You lost him? _That was dream-Mozzie, the words echoing in his head, bitter and accusing. _But you promised._

"No." Peter said again, realizing he was raising his voice, feeling like he was sinking. Like he was drowning. He looked from the doctor to the nurse and back again, desperate for some sort of confirmation that this wasn't happening, that there'd been a horrible mistake. Any moment now, they were going to realize it. They had to be talking about somebody else, another patient. Not Neal. _Because Neal was getting better, he was, and soon he'd be back with Peter, making fun of his suits and annoying him during staff meetings, all the while with that sly grin on his face—_

Melissa put a gentle hand on his arm; only when he felt the warmth of her touch did he realize that he was ice cold, that he was starting to shiver uncontrollably. "Agent Burke—"

"No!" Peter repeated, shouting now as he shook her off. "_No."_

_This can't be real. This can't be happening. I can't lose him now—_

"Peter. _Peter!_"

Somehow, Melissa's voice had transformed into Elizabeth's, and when he opened his eyes, the bright lights of the ICU were gone and he was back in bed, lying flat on his back in the near-dark of their bedroom, his breathing far too ragged. Elizabeth's grip on his arm was tight and warm as she leaned over him, shaking him urgently to full wakefulness.

"Honey, it's okay, you're okay," she said, trying to project calm, but it was completely undermined by the frightened look on her face.

He stared at her, wide-eyed, as reality came back. The whole thing had been a dream. A stupid dream. Neal wasn't dead.

Peter forced himself to relax the tension out of his body and concentrated on evening out his breathing. He needed a few seconds before he could speak, before he could nod in a way that he hoped was reassuring.

Judging by the still-anxious look on his wife's face, Peter didn't think he'd quite managed it.

He swallowed. "I had a—"he'd been going to say _bad dream_, but it sounded ridiculous, too much like something a five-year-old would say, so he finished awkwardly with—"I was dreaming."

"I kind of figured," she said dryly, with that knowing, winsome smile that he loved. "Just a dream, though. Not real."

"Yeah. Sorry," he said. "Guess I was kind of loud, huh?" He took a deep breath and tried for a little laugh as he exhaled, but didn't quite succeed.

She shrugged, eyes full of warmth. _She knows_, Peter thought. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He looked away, at the alarm clock that read 4:41 a.m. "Not really."

Elizabeth nodded. She didn't ask what it had been about. He had no idea how much he'd said aloud, but no doubt it had been enough. Peter was pretty sure that she knew everything. When it came to him, Elizabeth usually did.

Lifting his arm, she fit herself in tight against his body so he could put his arm around her and gather her in close. He tried to relax, tried to push the panic away.

He knew he wouldn't sleep, but it felt right. Some of the tension drained out of him, but it wasn't completely gone until El fell asleep and he carefully extricated himself, sliding out of bed and grabbing his cell phone from its customary place on the bedside table.

There were unwritten _rules_, yes. But after all, there was no _law_ saying an FBI agent couldn't make a 4 a.m. phone call.

He crept down the stairs, trying to tread as lightly as he could, and hitting the number for the hospital on his speed dial as he went.

"This is Special Agent Burke," he said quietly into the phone. The clock on the cable box said 5:25 a.m. "I'm calling for an update on Neal Caffrey." His voice was as authoritative and unemotional as he could make it. As if that could compensate for the fact that the call had been precipitated by a freak-out over a nightmare. _ Well, the person on the other end doesn't know that,_ he told himself.

"Yes, please hold for a moment."

Peter paced in the living room as he waited. It seemed like a long time before someone picked up.

"Agent Burke?"

"Yes."

"This is Amelia, one of Mr. Caffrey's nurses. We were going to call you . . . ."

Peter froze mid-stride, his grip on the phone tightening unconsciously. It was all too reminiscent of his dream.

But her next words broke the spell.

"He's starting to wake up, Agent Burke. Dr. Campbell is preparing to remove the tube in the next few minutes; he thinks Mr. Caffrey's strong enough to breathe on his own."

Peter closed his eyes for a moment and let the relief wash over him. When he opened his eyes, he found himself on the edge of the couch, though, strangely, he couldn't remember sitting down.

"That's—that's great news," he said, aware of a huge smile on his face.

_He's going to be okay._

_TBC . . . ._

_A/N - Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. Hope you enjoyed! Reviews always welcomed._


	14. The Full Value of Joy

Not a Fan of the Bittersweet

**Chapter 14 **

**The Full Value of Joy**

"To get the full value of joy, you must have someone to divide it with."  
― Mark Twain

* * *

Peter raced upstairs, conscious of the fact that he was grinning like a fool. He couldn't wait to share his news. It was early, but not _that _early.

His beloved was still asleep, lying on her side. As he set his cell on the nightstand, Peter eased himself down onto the bed behind her and started one of their favorite rituals. He leaned in to lay a little line of kisses along the right side of her face, starting with her forehead and working his way down.

El woke up almost immediately, but custom dictated that she remain still and keep her eyes closed until Peter's lips touched hers—only then would she kiss him back. Still Peter could feel her cheek curving into a smile that she couldn't stop. This was one of her favorite ways to be awakened (one of his, too).

As he kissed Elizabeth's cheekbone, he whispered against her skin, "I have some news, El."

That made her start. "Neal! It's Neal, isn't it?" She already sensed from his playful tone that it had to be good news. Cutting their ritual short, El turned toward him eagerly so she could see his face.

Peter nodded, leaning back on his elbow and enjoying the look of pure elation on her face (which he knew matched his own). "Just talked to the nurse. He's waking up and they're taking him off the ventilator."

"Oh, honey, thank God!" she exclaimed, bolting upright and giving him a quick, excited hug. "That's great, it's just so—"

"It absolutely is, but where's my kiss?" he asked, mock-petulant.

El gave him an indulgent eye-roll, but she didn't hesitate to oblige, reaching out to grab his shoulder and pulling him in to her so she could kiss him deeply.

"Mmm," he said, quite a nice long time later. "Much better."

"So tell me everything," she said eagerly.

"There's not much to tell, yet." He stroked her hand and she squeezed his in return. "Neal started to wake up, and they think he's ready to breathe on his own. They're probably taking him off the ventilator as we speak."

She let out a relieved sigh. "He's really going to be all right."

Peter hesitated a moment: was he jumping the gun? No, he didn't think so. "Well, I didn't talk to the doctor yet, but everything seems positive."

She nodded, smiling at him. "You're going over there?"

"Yup."

"Well, unfortunately, I've got an early client meeting, but I'll pop over around lunchtime." Elizabeth paused, and, up close as he was, Peter could see a tell-tale glistening in her eye. "It's—it's going to be so good to have him actually answer again when you talk to him. I've missed that."

"You and me both," Peter agreed, kissing her again. There were few things he loved more than when he and El were on the same page (of course, that happened quite a lot).

"Hon, before you go in, do you mind if I . . ." she gestured in the direction of the bathroom.

"Sure, go ahead."

Elizabeth hopped out of bed and Peter took the opportunity to grab his phone and dial. It took a few minutes before the call was answered—with no preliminaries, which wasn't surprising.

"Suit?"

Peter didn't bother with preliminaries, either. "He's waking up."

There was a little pause and then Mozzie spoke, trying to sound casual and not succeeding in the slightest. "That's—it's about damn time."

"You got that right," Peter said. He walked over to the closet and pulled out the first suit he could find. "I'm getting ready to head over to the hospital. Hopefully, Neal will be back to measuring out his life in coffee spoons before you know it."

"Yeah," Mozzie said automatically. Then with a tinge of disgust, "Wait. I can't believe I just said that. Now you're co-opting _me._"

Peter smiled as he grabbed a shirt and tie. "I would never."

"Ha! I wouldn't put it past you, suit. As I once said to your dear wife, you're sly."

Peter knew that El and Mozzie conversed, from time to time. Peter also knew that he was not privy to the details of said conversations—which always made him just slightly nervous. "Oh? When was that?"

"Ask her," Mozzie shot back.

Peter chuckled to himself. Well, it wasn't as if he'd really expected an actual answer.

"I'll be over to see Neal later, so you—" Mozzie hesitated, which wasn't like him. "You can, uh, keep an eye on him 'til then."

Peter nodded, even though, of course, Mozzie couldn't see. "I'll do my best." He figured Mozzie would just hang up, but then Peter heard him answer.

"Yeah," Mozzie said, and something in his voice gave Peter pause, because it sounded strangely like . . . affection. Which also wasn't like him. Mozzie cleared his throat before continuing. "I know."

* * *

In record time, Peter performed a shortened version of his morning routine, namely, the bare essentials of washing, tooth-brushing, shaving and getting dressed. Then he was kissing Elizabeth goodbye and practically running out the door.

It was amazing, he thought, how everything felt different than just a few minutes ago. Like the whole world had changed. Peter knew it sounded ridiculously over the top, but it was true. He'd gone from that . . . that heart-stopping nightmare where Neal was dead—Peter's mind instinctively shrank away from the memory—to the reality that Neal was waking up.

It was jarring, but in a good way. The best way, because it was also wonderful. He felt lighter, somehow. Not tired anymore, like he'd been just after that hellish dream. Now he was invigorated, almost giddy (not that an FBI agent would normally ever admit to _that)_. Nothing bothered him—not the gray, overcast sky that threatened rain at any moment, not the surprisingly heavy traffic for the early hour, not the car that cut him off when he pulled out of his street, not the extended search for a parking space when he got close to the hospital.

Well, the parking space hunt did bother him a little bit, since it delayed him another couple of minutes. But in the grand scheme of things, that was a trifling nuisance.

After all, Neal was awake. And he wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

"Agent Burke!" From her seat at the nurse's station, Melissa caught sight of him. He answered her smile with one of his own. "I understand you heard the good news."

"Got here as fast as I could. How's he doing?"

"Doing fine. Dr. Campbell pulled the tube and Neal's breathing on his own. We're drawing some blood—" She glanced over to Peter's left. "Doctor, this is Agent Burke, Mr. Caffrey's partner."

Peter shook hands with Campbell and listened to the doctor's report.

"Neal began to show signs of awareness that indicated he was waking up and able to breathe on his own, which are the indications we want to see before removing a patient from a ventilator. The removal of the tube went well and his respiratory function is strong. We're doing an arterial blood gas to make sure his oxygen levels are good. Your partner also opened his eyes for us, wiggled his toes, and squeezed my hand—all encouraging developments."

"And he—did he talk to you?"

The doctor nodded. "Standard protocol in these cases is to ask a series of questions, and he answered most of them. Who he is, what color his eyes are, that sort of thing. He didn't know where he was or what day it was—not surprising. He also didn't know why he was here."

Peter's gaze narrowed. "He didn't remember being shot? Is that—normal?"

Campbell considered it. "Well, I don't know about _normal, _but it's certainly not unusual. Especially now when he's just waking up. He'll probably remember more as time goes on, although possibly not everything."

"What happens now?"

Melissa handed Neal's chart over to Campbell, who scrutinized it for a minute. "We continue to monitor him closely. If he remains stable and doesn't develop any respiratory complications, he'll be moved out of ICU and into a regular room later today. He's going to be in the hospital for a few more days, at least. There's a drain at the surgical site, which will remain in place for a while. As of now, we'll keep him on IV nutrients and start him out with small quantities of liquids to make sure he tolerates it well before we try him on any solid food."

"And I can see him?"

"Sure," Campbell told him, before warning, "He's still pretty groggy, though. And even though he's been out of it for a few days, rest is the best thing for your partner, right now."

"I won't stay long," Peter assured him. The doctor smiled and walked away.

"You know, he's going to be excited to see you," Melissa said.

Peter glanced at her. "You think so?"

"I know so. Pretty much the first thing he did was ask about you. Actually, his exact words were—" she paused a minute, concentrating as if trying to get it exactly right, "—_Does Peter know I'm here? Because if not, I'm gonna be in big trouble."_

Peter laughed, wondering as he did so when was the last time that he'd really laughed. The words were just so very . . . Neal, though. He could practically hear Neal's voice saying them in his head.

"I assured him that you knew, and that you've been here since the beginning," Melissa continued. "And then he kind of . . . rolled his eyes at me and said, _oh, well, of course." _She smiled fondly. "Like it was so obvious it wasn't even worth saying."

A tiny, warm glow sparked in Peter's chest.

* * *

Despite Peter's assurance to the doctor, his visit ended up lasting longer than he'd planned. Because when he walked into the little cubicle, Peter discovered that Neal's eyes were closed: he'd apparently fallen asleep again. This dampened Peter's enthusiasm, but only a little.

Scanning his partner's still form, Peter observed that Neal still had an IV in, as well as a pulse oximeter. But he wasn't hooked up to any machines other than the heart monitor, which was a relief. Neal still looked like the ragged end of nowhere, though.

For a few moments, Peter stood there quietly, just relishing the sight of Neal's chest rising and falling on its own, without the need of a machine to inflate his lungs. He hesitated, unsure what to do. It wasn't as if he could wake Neal up, after all. Peter glanced at his watch and made a decision,

Cell phone use in the ICU was frowned upon, so he stepped outside into the hallway, pulling out his phone.

"Reese, it's Peter."

"Peter. You have news?"

"Neal woke up. They've taken him off the ventilator."

His boss's sigh of relief was audible, and there was an emotion in his voice that Peter had rarely heard from him. "That's great news, Peter. Are you at the hospital now?

"Yeah."

"Have you seen him?"

"Seen him, but not talked to him, yet," Peter answered. "He's asleep at the moment, so I thought I might stay here a while, until—"

"Take as long as you need," Hughes cut in. "You have anything going on here?"

"A case update meeting at eight."

"I'll run it for you." Hughes paused and Peter heard the click of keys as he checked his calendar. "I'm free. And I don't want Caffrey waking up on his own. Who knows what he might do?"

Peter smiled. "Afraid he might run?"

"Afraid he might go looking for you." Hughes told him without missing a beat. "I'll let everyone know the good news. Oh, and Peter, when I do . . . ."

"Yeah?" Peter murmured, distracted. He flattened himself against the wall of the corridor so two patients in wheelchairs could get by him.

"You do know that I'm taking complete credit for this, right? Hughes' voice was absolutely deadpan. "I mean, Neal's comatose and then, a few hours after _I_ read him the riot act, he wakes up. I'm only sorry I didn't go to see him earlier."

Peter grinned wide and then he started to laugh.

"What's so funny?" his boss demanded, mock-serious.

Reese Hughes had such a wonderfully wicked sense of humor. It was a shame, Peter thought, that he so rarely let it show.

* * *

Before he returned to the ICU, Peter made a few more phone calls, to the people who needed to know. Who deserved to know. Each of them had visited Neal over the past few days; each of them had been so worried.

And each of them would be pissed as hell at him if they found out that he'd sat on this news without telling them as soon as possible.

Really, he could have texted them. But he didn't. Because if he had, Peter wouldn't get to say the words out loud.

_He's waking up. He's breathing on his own. _

_He's going to be okay._

They were words, Peter soon discovered, that he never got tired of saying. No matter how many times he uttered them, he got the same visceral thrill every time, the same rush of joy thrumming though him like . . . sort of like an electric shock. A _good _shock, though, the kind that woke you up and energized you and reminded you how good it was to be alive.

Especially when you knew that your friend was alive—and was going to stay that way.

* * *

It was obvious who his first call should be.

"He's waking up, June. He's going to be all right."

If Peter had any doubt that June loved Neal like a son, the quaver in her voice when she repeated that last sentence back to him would have erased it. Then she was trying to ask him questions, but having a hard time, because she was crying. Quietly at first, and then unabashedly—tears of joy, but tears nonetheless.

By the end of the conversation, Peter was feeling a little choked up himself.

Jones and Diana didn't cry, of course, but the warmth in both of their voices at hearing that Neal was better put a lump in Peter's throat anyway. They, too, spent a lot of time with Neal on a daily basis, and they both had missed him more than they would probably ever admit.

Diana surprised him on that score, though. Before they hung up she said, "You know, boss, it just . . . it hasn't seemed the same without Caffrey around."

"No," he agreed.

"Just how is it that a felon could become so . . . so damn important?" she asked rhetorically, voice laced with a kind of affectionate exasperation.

"I have no idea," Peter said, with a shaky laugh, but even as he said it, he knew it wasn't quite true—and Diana knew it, too. It was that unique alchemy Neal had, that combination of being capable and smart and just so damn likable that you couldn't help but accept him, felonious tendencies and all. And, even more important (in Peter's mind) was that, deep down, Neal was fundamentally good—or at least, he _could _be, given the proper guidance and encouragement.

Peter wasn't in the habit of voicing that belief out loud (well, except to Elizabeth), because he was well aware of how naïve it sounded, but it was the hidden touchstone for all of his interactions with Neal. It was a big part of why, no matter how many problems Neal caused, Peter never questioned himself. Because whatever side game his consultant might be playing from time to time, whatever personal agendas he might harbor, whatever transgressions he might commit, Neal, with all his skill and all his potential, _was_ worth it. Worth the trouble, worth the worry, worth the risk.

He didn't say any of that to Diana, though.

Sara Ellis, no doubt, was one of those who would have rolled her eyes at Peter's optimistic view of Neal Caffrey. Not that it affected her reaction to his call. When he told her that Neal was awake, she gasped and then just kept saying _oh thank God, that's great, thank God. _After that, she stopped to ask, _you're sure he's really going to be okay, Peter? _before going back to more heartfelt thanking of God_. _More than anyone (except Peter), her happiness was mixed with immense personal relief. Peter knew that if Neal hadn't recovered, that Sara might not have, either. No one blamed her for what had happened, but that really didn't matter—because she would have forever blamed herself.

To that sentiment, Peter could definitely relate.

Rita's reaction was more like Mozzie's; she wasn't prone to emotional displays either. When Peter finished his spiel, there was a pause that went on just a little too long, during which he was pretty sure he could hear a sigh of relief. Then she recovered, in true Rita-fashion, sounding triumphant. "Well, of course he's okay. Didn't I say that Neal wouldn't pass up the chance to harass you for years to come?"

He was ready with the expected response. "And you're always right,"

Rita laughed, a silvery, joyous sound. "You're finally learning, Peter. And when you talk to Neal, for God's sake, tell him to stop being such a drama queen. I mean, I know he likes attention and all, but this was really getting ridiculous."

* * *

With his round of phone calls finished, Peter made his way back to Neal's bedside, where he pulled up a chair and sat, focusing on his partner. Normally, of course, this was when he would have started chattering away in the hope of getting Neal to wake up, just as he'd been doing for the past three days. Now, though, the doctor's words rang out in his head: Neal needed rest, sleep was the best thing for him, and Peter felt a little guilty for even being here.

But he couldn't bring himself to leave. Not until Neal woke up, not until Peter had seen it with his own eyes. Hughes was handling things back at the office; he'd told Peter not to hurry in. Peter stared at Neal for a few minutes longer, looking for any signs of awareness. When he didn't see any, he reached for his briefcase.

Settling back into the chair, Peter took out a file and started reading it—silently this time.

…...

At first, Peter found himself looking expectantly at Neal every few seconds (which meant he was making virtually no progress with the file). But as the minutes ticked by and Neal slept on, Peter started getting engrossed in the case report in spite of himself.

Then, eyeing Neal's slack face one more time, Peter thought of the old adage, the one about the watched pot never boiling.

So he got up and went for a little walk, stretching his legs. He took a bathroom break. He checked his email on his phone. He called Elizabeth—she was probably in her meeting—and left her a voice mail saying that Neal was doing well, that he was just waiting for him to wake up. Peter made sure to include what Neal had said to the nurse. Elizabeth would love that.

But when he came back, Neal was still asleep. Peter went back to reading.

And tried not to feel too disappointed.

* * *

He'd lost all track of time when another quick check of Neal brought him what he'd been waiting for: a glimpse of blue as Neal's eyelids fluttered, blinking blearily up at him.

_Finally._

Closing the file he held, Peter watched, waiting patiently. "Neal?"

It took several long seconds for Neal to focus on him, but when he finally did, a slow smile spread across his face.

"Hey, Peter!" Neal's voice was a croak, his words ever so slightly slurred—but his excitement at seeing Peter was obvious, all the same.

"Hey, yourself," Peter said eagerly, leaning forward and smiling broadly at the long-awaited sight of Neal awake and looking back at him. "Welcome back. How are you feeling?"

Neal swallowed thickly. " 'Kay."

"It's good to see you awake. Are you in pain?" Peter asked.

Considering it for a moment, Neal didn't answer right away. "Nah." Then he shifted in the bed and groaned. "Maybe a little."

"Take it easy, then," Peter told him. "You don't need to be moving around too much yet."

"Mostly I'm jus' . . . tired."

"Well, that's to be expected. You've had a hell of a time."

"I heard." Neal closed his eyes. "I got shot 'n I—I lost three days. Three _days_ . . . ." his voice drifted off, incredulous.

Peter was about to say how close Neal had come to losing so much more than that. But it seemed awfully melodramatic so he refrained, instead saying, "Yeah, it's been a long week. And they said you don't remember anything."

"Uh . . . well, no," Neal admitted, sounding abashed. " 'Cept it's weird, though . . . ." He blinked his eyes open to gaze at Peter worriedly.

"What's weird?"

"Don't remember . . . y'know, what happened, but then I r'member things that _didn't_ happen." Neal shook his head. "Least, I don't think they did, but—"

Peter frowned. "Like what?"

"Like Hughes yelling at me."

At this revelation, Peter smothered a smile, realizing that maybe he shouldn't have been so quick to laugh at his boss's remark on the phone after all.

"I know he doesn' like me so much, Peter," Neal continued, heaving a heavy sigh, "but he never . . . yelled at me before. But he _was_ and then you told him to stop, but he wouldn't, so you punched him and then you—you got suspended . . . ."

Neal's conflation of Hughes' lecture with Peter's smacking of Fowler (which Neal _hadn't _been there for, but often said sadly he wished he had)—coupled with the look of utter bafflement on Neal's face—made Peter want to laugh. Except that he knew Neal was totally serious.

"Um, you're a little confused, Neal, but it's okay," Peter said, striving to sound reassuring. "Reese was just trying to . . . wake you up. He didn't mean it. And I promise you I'm not suspended, okay?" Impulsively, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his credential, opening it up and waving it. Neal tried to follow it with his eyes, with limited success. "See, got my badge right here. You dreamed that part, so—"

"Well, _that's_ good," Neal interrupted, his relief plain as his gaze belatedly wandered back to Peter's face. "I mean, really. Y' can't just keep gettin' suspended, Peter, it's not good for you."

"Right," Peter said solemnly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the irony of Neal, of all people, issuing good-conduct advice. "I promise I will work on that." He decided there was no need for Neal to know how very badly he'd wanted to hit one of those marshals the other day.

"And in the meantime, don't worry about anything." He paused, watching Neal's eyes droop. "Look, you need to rest, so I should probably go—" Peter started to get up.

"What? No, no, don't go." Neal was staring at him now, eyes wide open with a forlorn look that would have melted a heart of stone. "C'mon Peter. You can't leave now, you just _got_ here."

That made Peter smile. He guessed from Neal's perspective, that it was true.

"I haven't seen you in _days,_" Neal said, his voice mournful. "I mean, I didn't know that, but now I do, 'n it's really not fair, so . . . .

"Ah. Missed me, did you?" Peter asked in a teasing voice. He sat back down.

"Sure," Neal said without hesitation. There was something so simple, so genuine about the way he said the word; it made Peter feel a little wistful, somehow. You'd never get that kind of artlessness from Neal under normal circumstances, and Peter found it oddly endearing. "And you hafta tell me."

Peter eyed him warily. "Tell you what?"

"Y'know, what happened . . ." Peter thought maybe Neal was going to ask about Hughes' tongue-lashing, but his partner seemed to have already forgotten about it, because he added, " . . . how I got here."

Oh. That. "Not now."

"Yes, _now_," Neal said in a stubborn voice, face dangerously close to a pout. "I wanna know. C'mon, Peter."

Peter let out a long sigh. "What do you remember?"

Neal squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, wincing a little from the pain of it. "Lessee . . . I told Sara I'd drive her home and—" he broke off as his eyes shot open, alarm written on his face. "Sara—did she get hurt? She okay?"

"She's fine."

"Oh, good," Neal said, relieved. "You know . . . she's not so bad, Peter."

"I'll say," Peter answered dryly. "She's been to visit you too, you know."

"She did?" Neal looked pleased, then crestfallen. "An' I don' remember that either."

"Lots of people have come to visit you," Peter said, "and I'm sure they'll all be back, now that you're awake, but—"

Of course, Neal couldn't let that go. "Really? Who?"

Peter thought it over. "It would take too long to list them, so let's just say . . . um, pretty much everybody we know? I think that about covers it."

"Wow," Neal said in a tone of sheer wonderment. "Didn' know I was so . . . popular."

"Oh, rest assured, the Neal Caffrey fan club has been out in full force." Peter paused, taking a moment to appreciate the delighted smile on Neal's face before prompting him back on-topic. "So . . . you offered Sara a ride home. Anything else you can recall?"

This prompted a few long seconds of contemplation before Neal finally shook his head. "All I 'member."

"You drove her home. When you got there, Mr. Black arrived right after you did."

"Mr. . . . Black?"

"The assassin Halbridge hired. Well, Price, really."

"Oh?" Neal said tentatively. Then, "_Oh,_" as things finally clicked in his muzzy brain. "Uh oh."

"Definitely _uh oh_," Peter agreed. Despite the gravity of the topic, he had to suppress a smile at how much Neal looked and sounded like a toddler abruptly awoken from his nap. "He shot you twice and Sara shot him. Killed him."

"She did?" Neal said, stunned. "Wow. Can't believe I don' remember."

"Maybe it's for the best." Peter wondered whether or not that was true.

Neal responded with a _hmm _that indicated this was a new thought for him. "Dunno . . . I usu' ly have a really good mem'ry, Peter. I—" He stopped and then started again. "I don' _like_ not remembering."

Peter understood. For someone as quick-witted as Neal, who relied so much on his brain, the gaping holes in his recollection were bound to be disquieting. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. The doctor said your memory might come back when your head's a little clearer. You did talk to the doctor, right?"

"Uh huh. They were here. And, well, I'm here. Lotta bad stuff, but . . . guess I'm gonna make it, right?"

"Yeah, you were lucky," Peter muttered, shaking his head at this fresh example of Neal's frighteningly cavalier attitude about his own welfare. True, he was drugged, but even in his right mind, he probably wouldn't have been that much more concerned with it.

It was an issue Peter planned to address—and soon. But not today. Best to do it when Neal might actually remember the conversation.

"How'd you find out?" Neal was frowning at him.

Peter didn't follow. "Find out what?"

"That I got shot."

"Oh." Leave it to Neal to immediately ask about the one thing Peter didn't want to talk about.

"We realized that Black was in the city and that you and Sara were heading back to her place. We tried to call you both, but no one picked up. While we were on the way there, we . . . we heard it on the police radio."

At that, Neal's expression changed. He didn't say anything, just stared at Peter with narrowed eyes.

"We didn't know any details," Peter continued, already wanting this discussion over with but knowing he couldn't stop now. "Just that—that there'd been a shooting at Sara's address and that one person had been killed and one wounded."

_Onedeadonewounded. _Peter pushed the haunting echo out of his head.

Slowly, realization was dawning on Neal's face.

"No. Really?"

"Yeah, really." Peter didn't want to think too closely about the specifics of that car ride. He'd already marked the contrast between the two of them-how ironic it was that Neal wanted to remember, while, for Peter, there were so many things about the last four days that he wished he could forget. And those moments on the way to Sara's, when he'd been so sure that either Neal or Sara was dead—those agonizing moments were at the top of the list.

"So you . . . you weren't sure who . . . ." Neal's voice was very soft.

Peter shook his head.

Neal swallowed hard. "But you—you thought that someone was . . . was . . . ."

Peter nodded grimly. "You or Sara."

"Oh,_ Peter_," Neal said, and there it was again, that rare sincerity, that unfiltered emotion, except this time it was empathy mixed with horror. Neal's eyes were huge in his pale face, his gaze fixed on Peter and his distress palpable. "That's . . . it musta been really . . . ." His voice trailed off, as if he couldn't come up with the words to express it properly.

"It was . . . rough," Peter said quietly. He opened his mouth and closed it again. What else could he say? The less said the better, anyway. He found himself looking out the window.

Some time must have passed, because now, in a strange sort of role reversal, it was Neal, gently prompting _him. _"So . . . so what happened next?"

The words brought Peter out of his reverie. "Right. We finally got there. Sara was there, with NYPD. You were already gone, in the ambulance."

"Well, least you knew that we were both . . . okay," Neal said, sounding relieved, and Peter knew he meant not necessarily _okay, _but at least, _not dead._

"Not quite," Peter told him, blowing out a long breath. "What I knew, at the time, was that Sara was in shock, because she'd just killed somebody. That you'd been rushed to the hospital with multiple gunshot wounds. And that there was enough of your blood on her—and on the floor—to scare the living hell out of me."

Neal gaped at him, a stricken look on his face.

"Sara told me what happened. Black shot through the door, you both ran into the other room. Except first you thought to grab her purse, which had her gun in it," Peter added, remembering. "She said if not for that, you both would have been dead."

That brought a small smile to Neal's face, which Peter liked to see. "Well, she . . . she packs heat, Peter." Neal said it slowly, as if he were recalling something.

"Yes, she does. Fortunately. Then, after she shot Black, Sara stayed with you and kept pressure on the wound, kept you from bleeding out."

Peter hesitated. Neal had a distant look in his eye, and Peter wondered if all of this was starting to jog his memory a bit.

"She was a mess, though," he continued when Neal didn't say anything. "Freaked out about killing Black, guilty that she didn't get him before he got you. And . . . terrified that you weren't going to make it."

"That's . . . wow, I really . . . really owe her, Peter," Neal said, his tone solemn.

"We all do." Peter agreed.

"So then what?"

"Then," Peter said briskly, "there was lots of sitting around and four hours of surgery, followed by days of waiting for you to come around, which finally ended this morning. Speaking of that," he added, "Rita Karstens said to tell you it's a good thing you woke up, because your desperate need for attention is really getting ridiculous."

Neal's eyes sparkled. "That so? She didn' mind taking advantage of it in court, though, huh?"

Peter chuckled. It was telling that Neal didn't even bother trying to deny the truth of Rita's statement: he _did_ love attention, after all. It wasn't exactly a secret.

"Hey, what time 's it?" Neal asked, yawning.

Peter checked his watch. "A little after nine."

Neal blinked lazily. "In the morning?"

"Yes, in the morning," Peter said, glancing involuntarily at the morning sun streaming in through the small window—the clouds had moved off—and wondering how worried he should be that Neal seemed completely oblivious to it.

"Wait—whyrn't you at work?" Neal sounded anxious.

"Well, I've got an excuse. I stopped on the way to visit my partner in the hospital."

"Oh, riiight. Thanks, Peter," Neal said, smiling again.

"And Hughes is covering for me." Peter added.

"How 'bout that," Neal said.

"I come around this time every day," Peter explained.

Neal stared at him, wide-eyed. "Huh? Every day? Thass . . . really nice of you," Neal said; Peter could tell he was touched. Then he pondered for a moment. "That's right, the nurse said that you were here all the time. Really 'preciate that."

"Just checking up on you."

"Oh. S'okay, Peter. Not goin' anywhere," Neal informed him.

Peter sighed. "Not checking up on you _that_ way. Checking to see how you are."

"Oh, well, I'm okay. Just kinda . . . tired," Neal said.

Peter took Neal's starting to repeat himself as a cue to leave. Right now, Neal needed rest a lot more than conversation.

Just then a nurse came in. Neal managed a dazzling smile for her, naturally, because she was young and attractive and Neal was . . . Neal. She smiled back and Peter groaned inwardly. _Wait til he's feeling better and ready to set the flirting-with-the-nurses record . . . ._

"Well, hello, Mr. Caffrey—you're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Better now," Neal said, admiring smile still on his face. " 'N please call me Neal."

She beamed back at him fondly. "Of course, Neal. I'm your nurse, Summer."

"Summer!" Neal said with delight. "Summer. Should I—um, shall I compare thee to . . . to a summer's day?" he recited, rather tentatively.

Funny how that worked, Peter reflected. Neal had trouble carrying on a coherent dialogue with _him_, but when an attractive nurse came on the scene, suddenly he was up to quoting Shakespearean sonnets.

Well, maybe not _quite_ up to it. Neal opened his mouth to finish, but he stopped, a blank expression on his face, like he couldn't quite remember the rest.

"I think he's trying to say you're more lovely and more temperate." Peter muttered wryly, capping it for him.

Neal threw a grateful look Peter's way. " 'Zactly!"

The nurse blushed, murmuring a _thank you_ as she busied herself taking her patient's vitals and making some notes on the little handheld computer she carried.

Peter smiled in spite of himself. "Well, I think my work here is done," he declared. "I can see you're in good hands, Neal. You get some rest. I'll be back later, okay?"

Neal was gazing beatifically at Summer.

"Neal?"

"Huh?"

"I'm leaving now. I'll be back later."

With what looked like a major effort, Neal finally dragged his eyes away from the nurse to Peter. "Oh, okay. Don't . . . um, don' work too hard." He sounded preoccupied.

_Gee, I wonder why_, Peter thought, shaking his head. As he was about to leave, the nurse asked, "Agent Burke, will you be coming back soon?"

"Later today. I'm heading in to work, so I won't be back for a few hours."

"I just wanted to let you know that Dr. Campbell said if all goes well, Neal will probably be out of the ICU and in a regular room by the time you get back."

Peter nodded, pleased to hear it. "That's great."

"But, Peter," Neal said, voice plaintive, attention abruptly focused on Peter once more, "if 'm not here, how'll you know where I am?"

"Oh, we'll call Agent Burke, don't worry," Summer assured him.

"I'd find him anyway," Peter told her, smiling as he looked from her face to Neal's. "It's kind of . . . my thing."

It took a minute, but eventually Neal grinned back knowingly, a gleam in his eye. In that second, he looked like himself for the first time in days, and Peter felt his heart swell in response.

God, but he'd missed seeing that.

_TBC . . . ._

_A/N—Here I am, apologizing for another lengthy delay. This chapter was ready to post a while ago—it was around 8,000 words at the time—but for inexplicable reasons, I just wasn't happy with it. I put it aside for a couple days and then went back to working on it, at which point it started growing, until it was over 13,000 words. The Peter/Neal conversation, which was only a few sentences initially, became much longer, and I added a bunch of other things. Then the whole thing just seemed too long to me, so I ended up splitting it (that second part is now Chapter 15). I hope that, altogether, it's not only longer, but better—though you, of course, will be the judge of that._

_Once again, truly sorry the wait for this chapter has been so long; I'll try not to let that happen again and hope the wait has been worth it. It's flattering to know that so many are reading this story, but that makes it all the more embarrassing for me when I am this slow in posting._

_Ch. 15 will be posted on Thursday._

_Thanks to all of you for reading and, especially, reviewing! As always, would love to hear what you thought . . . ._


	15. A Guessing Game

Not a Fan of the Bittersweet

**Chapter 15**

**A Guessing Game**

"_Life seemed even more of a guessing game than usual."  
_― Julian Barnes, _The Sense of an Ending _

* * *

When he arrived at the office, Peter was quickly inundated. Not by the work he knew was waiting for him.

By his coworkers. They came at him from all directions.

"Agent Burke! How's Neal?"

"Did you get to talk to him? We heard he was still sleeping, the slacker."

"Yeah, Peter, we all need an update on our favorite felon."

"Did Agent Hughes really bring him out of the coma? Like, in a _Sleeping Beauty _kind of way?"

Peter smiled, but before he could get a word out, another voice boomed out from above, cutting through the chatter.

"Burke."

Peter—and everyone else—looked up to see Hughes gesturing at him. "I need a word."

"Later, everybody," Peter said, walking quickly to the stairs. "Neal's good," he added, over his shoulder as he went up. His boss didn't seem like he was in the mood to wait. Peter wondered if something had happened at the meeting, or if there was some other problem he was totally unaware of. Maybe he should have checked his email again before he left the hospital . . . .

Hughes strode back to his office and Peter followed. Once inside, Peter made for the chair in front of the desk but stopped when the SAC said, "Before you sit down, why don't you shut the door, Peter."

Peter closed the door and sat down, putting his briefcase on the floor. The look on Hughes' face was making him feel just a bit apprehensive.

"So," Hughes said, without preamble, "how is Caffrey? He okay?"

Letting out a sigh of relief, Peter chuckled. "Yes, he's fine. Or, at least, he's better. Geez, Reese, you had me thinking something was wrong."

"Nothing's wrong, except that you could have called, Peter." Hughes said, in a voice that held just a hint of scolding, and triggered a quick, disorienting flashback to a long-ago lecture from Peter's mother: _if you knew you were going to be late coming home, Peter Burke, you should have called . . . . _

Peter dragged his thoughts back to now. "But," he said, confused. "I did call."

"Yeah, hours ago," Hughes said, looking exasperated. "I tell everyone that Neal's awake, but then after _that, _all I get are questions I can't answer. Everybody and their brother's been in here wanting to know what's going on." Hughes gave him a mild glare, gesturing toward the bullpen and parroting the questions. "'_How is he, really? What did Agent Burke say? How long will Neal be in the hospital? Where's Peter? If everything's really okay, then why isn't Peter here?_"

"Sorry, Reese," Peter said, smiling because now Hughes was smiling, too. "He really was asleep for a while, so there wasn't much to say."

He filled his boss in; Hughes asked a few questions about Neal's condition until he was satisfied.

"Speaking of Neal, there's something else I guess I have to tell you," Peter remarked. "Even though I'll probably never hear the end of it."

Hughes was looking beyond Peter, out into the hallway. He seemed distracted enough that Peter wondered if there might actually be an eager crowd standing outside the door, waiting for news. "What's that?"

"Neal remembered your lecture."

As he'd expected, that got his boss' attention in an instant. Hughes scrutinized him with an air of disbelief. "No, he didn't."

"Oh, yes, he did."

"Aha," Hughes said, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. "You know, I'm not usually the type to say _I told you so, _Peter, but . . . ."

"You did tell me so," Peter admitted. "Feel free to gloat. However, you should know that Neal also thought that I punched you and got suspended. He's still a little . . . confused."

That got a rare laugh out of Hughes—well, more of a snort, really. "He's not exactly pulling that out of thin air, though, is he?"

"No," Peter admitted, letting out a rueful sigh. "How'd the staff meeting go?"

"Fine. I had Blake write up a summary and list the follow-ups; it's in your email."

"I appreciate you covering for me."

"Don't mention it," Hughes said, waving a dismissive hand.

"And . . ." Peter hesitated. "I know I haven't been in the office as much the past few days—"

Hughes scowled at him. "Anyone who works the hours you do doesn't have to apologize for a few minutes here and there."

Peter nodded and got up to go. _If only every boss were like Reese Hughes._

"Peter, two more things."

"Yeah?"

"In the interest of having work in the White Collar unit not completely grind to a halt, please update the . . . the masses out there on Caffrey. Preferably as soon as possible and all at once. If you don't do it now, you're just going to be spending what little is left of the morning doing it over and over again."

"Sure," Peter said, feeling a very strong desire to laugh at Hughes' impatient expression. "I mean, if you think it makes sense."

"Oh, believe me. It does."

"I will. Now, what was the other thing you needed?"

"Oh," Now his boss looked strangely ill at ease, his gaze wandering away from Peter. "That. Yes. If anyone asks, I—remember that the reason for this conversation was to discuss what went on in the meeting."

"Uh, okay," Peter said, nonplussed. He stared at Hughes until Reese's eyes met his, trying to figure out the purpose of what seemed (on the face of it) a peculiar request.

"I didn't call you in here to talk about our resident felon," Hughes continued, giving Peter a meaningful glance.

"Okay," Peter said slowly, "but—"

Hughes stopped him with a severe frown. "I have a reputation to uphold, Burke." He paused before resuming. "Go make your announcement. I'm counting on you to try to salvage some semblance of productivity in this office. If that's even possible."

Peter fought the urge to salute, keeping his expression solemn. "Yes, sir."

His boss rolled his eyes and gestured Peter out, leaving the agent to ponder whether Hughes really thought his _I don't care _act would convince anyone.

Peter highly doubted it.

* * *

"You don't think SAC Hughes is angry with Agent Burke, do you?" Blake asked nervously, looking up at Hughes' office and then back to Agent Berrigan.

"Why would he be angry with Peter?" Diana asked, not looking up from her computer screen.

Blake shrugged. "I don't know, but he seemed . . . like he wasn't happy."

"If he's annoyed," Jones interjected, just returning from the break area, "it's probably because all of us keep asking him about Neal ad infinitum." To Diana, he said, "Do you think Peter's gonna want a fresh pot when he's done in there?"

Diana checked her watch. 'It's late, but I wouldn't put it past him. You know Peter."

Jones nodded and left, presumably to replenish the coffee supply.

"He really looked he was . . . upset about something," Blake insisted. He might be a probie, but he knew that look—and he knew it didn't bode well.

"Well, sure he was upset, but not with Peter," Diana said patiently. "It's probably because he's concerned about Neal."

"Neal?" Blake asked.

"Yes, Neal. Neal Caffrey. Our consultant who got shot, you know the one?" Diana joked.

Blake rolled his eyes. "I guess I always sort of . . . got the impression that Agent Hughes just kind of . . . tolerated Neal."

"Good eye, Blake." Diana's voice was approving. "He does. But I think that may be starting to . . . shift a little bit. And even if not, it doesn't mean Hughes isn't going to worry, all the same."

Peter emerged then, but instead of going back to his own office, he came down the stairs, stopping a couple of steps from the bottom. Blake had a sudden flashback to that horrible day, when Agent Graham had stood on those same stairs to tell everyone that Neal had been shot.

But today, of course, the message was very different.

Peter raised his voice. "Okay, everybody, come over if you've got a minute." He waited a few seconds while everyone within earshot came to stand at the foot of the stairs.

Clearing his throat, Peter looked slightly uncomfortable. "I know that everyone has been wondering about Neal, so we—I figured I should just update everybody at once. Early this morning, Neal started to come around, and he was taken off the ventilator. His breathing was good and if everything goes well, he should be transferred from the ICU to a regular room sometime today." He glanced around at the assembled group. "Neal's groggy and in pain, but he's doing much better. I had the chance to talk with him. He didn't remember what happened, so I told him. He's going to be in the hospital for a while yet; I don't know how long."

Pausing, Peter considered what else to say. "I want to thank all of you for your concern. Neal was also very pleased to know that you've all been visiting him. He said he didn't know he was that popular." That got a ripple of laughter from the crowd. He hesitated. "Well, that's it. Thanks, everybody."

Peter was relieved to see that his audience understood his words were their signal to go back to work. After the crowd had dispersed, Peter came down the stairs and made his way over to the break area. It was only now hitting him that he hadn't had any breakfast.

"So," Diana said casually, throwing a look at Blake who was hovering nearby. She'd already sat back down at her desk. "Everything okay with Hughes?"

"Hughes? Oh, sure," Peter answered, looking uneasy. "He just—he had to talk with me about the staff meeting."

"Sure he did," Diana shot back, rolling her eyes and going back to typing.

Peter had to work very hard not to smile.

* * *

"So," he said flatly, "you're asleep again. The suit said you slept through a lot of his visit, too."

Mozzie stared down at Neal. The perspective was something he could never get used to because, thanks to Neal's height advantage, usually the reverse was true. Also, it was rare to catch Neal asleep, in any event. He'd had three days of seeing Neal like this, and yet it still felt so very wrong.

"If this is a ploy to milk attention, it needs to stop," Mozzie told him. "It's gone long past the point of being interesting."

Neal didn't answer.

"At least you're not on that damn ventilator anymore. Those things make me nervous. I mean, we're already barreling our way toward a dystopian future where machines control humankind. Why rush it?"

Without the machines, though, he had to admit that it _was_ very quiet. The ICU had always had a background hum of hissing and beeping, a low level of noise that filled in the gap somehow. Here, in the regular hospital room, it was just dead silence and that, in its own way, was disturbing. It almost made him want to open the door, to let a little of the outside noise in.

Heaving a long sigh, Mozzie leaned back in the chair, his eyes never leaving Neal's still face.

"Sorry I couldn't come earlier. I was otherwise engaged—I won't say with what since, of course, this room is _completely _not secure." In a habitual gesture, he glanced around suspiciously.

"I probably should stop talking, since rest is apparently what you need . . ." he heard his own voice fade away.

"If you were awake to hear this, I'm sure you'd think it was crazy, but I've been thinking, with all of this visiting you in the hospital, about when you were . . . away." Mozzie paused. "How I never visited you there."

He cleared his throat. 'I had my reasons. The thought of setting foot in a prison was too terrifying to contemplate. I always figured it would irrevocably alter my body chemistry and transform me into something else entirely. You know how, in those cultures without technology, they think taking a picture steals your soul? I thought that's what would happen as soon as I entered the building. And, yes, I know that sounds paranoid," he added, looking up sharply as if Neal had challenged him.

Of course, Neal hadn't. He kept sleeping.

"Then again, that has to be wrong, doesn't it? Because you were there for years - " Mozzie fought the urge to shiver " - and your soul is still intact. I mean, anyone can see that." He studied Neal again for a long moment, not speaking.

"Also, there is the not-so-insignificant fact that if I hadn't passed along that tip from Jimmy the Snitch," Mozzie went on, "you wouldn't have been in the big house to begin with." He watched Neal and sighed. "I know you think I'm incapable of feeling guilt, and I know I've never said this to you, but . . . I should have kept my mouth shut, Neal. I should have known better. And if I could change it, well . . . I would."

A little silence ensued, during which Mozzie thought, with some bitterness, about Kate and the many ways she'd ended up screwing Neal over, whether on purpose or by accident.

He brought his focus back to Neal. "Well, enough excuses. What I'm trying to say is, I should have visited you. I know that now. And I should also say that things are . . . a lot more interesting when you're around."

"This one was close, Neal. Too close. This made that time in Cannes seem like a walk in the park, you understand?"

If Neal understood, he gave no sign. Had he been awake, of course, Neal would have understood. There was no way he could have forgotten how very wrong things had gone in Cannes.

"This whole _not knowing if you're going to live or die_ thing is just too stressful. I mean, normally I'm really good with stress, but this is . . . a bit much." His eyes wandered around the room, wondering who had decided that a color scheme consisting of nothing but white would somehow promote healing. It would be much more likely to promote insanity. Like some twisted sensory deprivation experiment . . . .

He looked out the window. "The thing is, the suit may have a point."

"'Bout what?" a hoarse voice asked.

Mozzie swung his gaze back to Neal sharply. "You're awake." He peered at Neal through narrowed eyes. "How long were you awake?"

Neal raised his eyebrows and put on a look of innocence. But Mozzie was having none of it.

"You were awake the whole time," he declared, his voice accusing.

Neal didn't deny it, just favored him with a toned-down version of his usual smug grin.

"So," Mozzie said. "How are you? How do you feel?"

"I feel . . ." Neal's voice kind of drifted away for a second before he resumed " . . . I feel uh, . . . sorry. That you were that . . . worried."

"Worried?" Mozzie scoffed. His tone was elaborately casual. "If I was worried, it was only because hospitals are breeding grounds for killer infections. Also because I—I realized that if you didn't make it, your various caches might never be found, because I never got around to asking you for exact locations."

"My . . . caches? Oh, I think you may have asked," Neal said. His eyes were dull, but Mozzie thought he could see a bit of a twinkle there.

"That's right—I asked, you just never got around to _telling_." Mozzie stopped as Neal managed a slightly lopsided smile. "And I'm sure there are some very valuable items, out there."

Neal's voice was appropriately grave. "No doubt."

"Not just valuable, but _priceless," _Mozzie said, giving him a meaningful look. "The kinds of things one needs to take very good care of, because they are irreplaceable."

"I'll remember that."

"See that you do," Mozzie answered.

Neal eyed him, a puzzled look on his face. "Are we, uh, . . . still talking about my hidden stash?"

"Of course not," Mozzie snapped. "Also, if you didn't recover, the suit would be a wreck, seriously. Talk about something to worry about. I don't know if I could deal with him."

"Oh, I'm sure," Neal agreed, blinking slowly. "Tough to . . . handle."

"You got that right. The man would be a total basket case, I'm telling you, and I really have better things to do than hand-holding a traumatized fed. Now, how are you really feeling?"

"Tired," Neal sighed. "'N it's starting to hurt like hell."

"Well, that's what the morphine pump is for," Mozzie said, guiding his hand toward it. "Enjoy it while you can, because I have a feeling your time with it will be limited. The man is only going to let you have it for so long."

Neal nodded.

"You're tired, and you should be resting." Mozzie told him. "Just - just reassure me before I go."

"Um, I think I'll live?" Neal ventured, smiling weakly.

Mozzie stared at him. "Okay, that was not the most reassuring thing I've ever heard, but I guess it'll have to do for now." He got up. "Take it easy, Neal. I'll be back either tonight or tomorrow morning."

"Thanks for coming by, Mozz. I know you don' like hospitals. And by the way . . . ."

"Yeah?"

"You should know . . . I don't blame you for me getting caught. Thass on me, okay? 'S not your fault. And for what it's worth, I . . . I, uh didn' ever expect you to visit me. Y'know, in prison," Neal said, his voice quiet and his gaze skittering away from Mozzie's face.

"I know," Mozzie replied shortly. "Which is kind of the point."

Neal registered confusion. "It is?"

"Yes, it is. Because sometimes . . . sometimes life is about doing more than people expect. Or, at least - it should be."

Mozzie left then, with Neal staring at him, still looking bewildered. With any luck, Neal wouldn't even remember that this conversation had happened. Which might be for the best, because Mozzie was afraid that he was going soft, and he'd always resisted that.

Though, to be truthful, there were probably worse things than going soft. In fact, if he were honest with himself, he'd have to admit that there were _definitely _worse things.

* * *

"Like I said, If you're planning to visit him," Peter said, pausing to bite into his pastrami sandwich, "don't expect too much. Neal's pretty out of it."

"Oh, I don't know," Diana said, exchanging a mischievous smile with Jones as Blake looked up from his steak hoagie to eye both of them curiously. "Could be . . . fun."

They were eating at the conference room table. Peter's plan had been to work through lunch so he could cut out early, later in the afternoon, and stop by the hospital on his way home. But Diana and Jones had insisted he at least have a quick bite with them, and when Blake volunteered to pick up sandwiches from the deli down the block, Peter had acquiesced.

"Yeah, are there any _unsolved_ cases you'd like to clear?" Jones asked, his emphasis clear and his voice droll. "This might be the perfect time."

"Ha ha," Peter said dryly, thinking of the time he'd seen Neal under the influence, at that clinic—and the confession Neal had made. That little incident was something the three of them knew nothing about—and he sure as hell wasn't going to tell them. "Neal does tend to get a bit . . . chatty when he's on something, though," he added, only belatedly realizing how cryptic that probably sounded.

"Just think—we could ask him about the Pemberton job," Diana interjected, her excitement plain.

Blake's face lit up, making him look even younger than usual. "Hey, I remember one of the instructors at Quantico talking about that one."

"Yeah, well, tempting though it undoubtedly is, we won't be asking him about any heists," Peter said, chuckling a little under his breath.

"Oh, I know, boss." Diana had a pensive look on her face. "I was only kidding. It's just . . . I want to know how the hell he got that sculpture out, with guards on every door, no alarm tripped . . . I mean, come on."

"Teleportation?" Jones suggested.

Peter groaned. "Let's not give him any ideas. Tell you what, Diana: why don't you put that on the list of things to ask Neal after the statute of limitations runs out?"

Diana laughed. "There's an idea. It'd be a long list, though."

"Don't remind me," Peter said, sighing.

"So you're saying Neal might actually reveal some of his secrets?" Blake inquired, looking interested.

"High-quality drugs can do that to a person," Jones remarked, leaning back in his chair and grinning. "Also, speaking of secrets, Neal's not the only one who's got'em. Because you haven't told us how things are going with the lovely Officer Megan Flynn."

Blake choked on the water he was drinking. Jones and Diana laughed, while Peter just shook his head.

"You know, Blake, when Caffrey gets back, maybe you could ask him for a few lessons on the whole secret-keeping thing," Diana said innocently. "Might come in handy."

Blake was using a napkin to wipe his face, along with the glass-topped conference table.

"And I'll give you lesson one right now," Jones added. "Try not to turn beet red when a certain someone's name is mentioned."

Peter wouldn't have thought it possible for their probie to turn any redder, but somehow, Blake managed it.

* * *

When Peter returned to the hospital later that day, Neal was indeed in a regular room. Both Elizabeth and the hospital had called to make sure he knew that fact.

And Neal wasn't alone.

Sara Ellis was there, too—well, momentarily, anyway. As Peter entered the room, she was in the process of leaving: backing away from Neal's bed, looking some combination of guilty, amused, and alarmed.

"Peter! Hi. Nice to see you. Listen, I've gotta run. Don't want to wear Neal out. And I have to—have to make a phone call."

Just like that, she was gone. Peter's gaze swiveled back to Neal. Neal had tracked Sara with his eyes as she left, and now he lay motionless in the bed, still staring blankly at the doorway where she'd been.

Sara's abrupt departure was curious, but that could wait.

"Hey, Neal. How's it going?"

Neal's eyes wandered back to Peter, who was now standing at his bedside. A smile broke sluggishly over his face; he'd been unaware of Peter's entrance. "Peter! You found me!"

Peter gave him a wry look. "Don't I always?"

"Always . . . what?" Neal said, looking uncertain.

"Always find you," Peter explained, secretly amused and thinking to himself, _so this is how this conversation is going to go._

"Riiight, that's right. You know," Neal said, with an air of reflection, "I was thinkin' about that."

"Oh?"

When Neal didn't continue, Peter said, "I'm sure I'm going to be sorry I asked, but what were you thinking?"

"Well," Neal said earnestly, "if you chase someone for like, three whole years, and then catch'em twice, how does that make you _two and oh_ finding them? 'Member when you said that? I mean, isn't that two out of, like, a hundred? Or how ever many times you _didn't_ find me?"

Peter stared at him and shook his head. _Only Neal_. "And you're just thinking of this now?"

"Uh, well . . . yeah." Neal clearly saw nothing strange in it.

"See, this is what happens when you get too much time to think," Peter said briskly. "How do you feel?"

"Um, tired. Kind of . . . floaty." Peter knew Neal had to be tired, all right—he would never have let Peter off the hook that easily otherwise. " 'N it hurts. 'Specially when I move . . . ."

Peter examined him carefully. He still looked exhausted, with dark circles shadowing his eyes. He was still way too pale, and his eyes appeared a tad unfocused. But he did look better.

Better being a relative term, Peter thought, not wanting to think about just how bad Neal had looked previously.

"I think the key is not to move around too much, just yet," Peter advised, then added, "You _look_ better, at least."

" 'S good," Neal said. His face brightened. " 'N guess what, Peter?"

"What?"

"I 'membered some more!" Neal looked very proud, like a star pupil who'd been called on in class and performed brilliantly.

"Uh, that's . . . that's good, Neal," Peter said, recognizing that an answer was most definitely expected.

"But, y'know . . . ."

"What?"

"This . . . bein' shot . . ." Neal grimaced, voice trailing off before he belatedly finished the thought, " . . . really not fun."

"Yeah," Peter said. After a long pause he added, "Look . . . about that. I—I'm sorry, Neal."

"Peter!" Neal said, looking marginally more awake—and borderline scandalized. "_You_ didn't do it!"

The agent sighed. "I know, but . . . it shouldn't have happened and—I'm sorry."

"Oh. Well, me, too. But don' worry about it Peter. Stuff happens," Neal said, waving a hand airily. "Though I gotta say," Neal paused and looked around before returning his unfocused gaze to Peter. He bit his lip and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "Don't like guns, Peter," he confided.

"Yes, I do remember that, Neal," Peter answered, fighting not to smile. "It's one of your best qualities."

"Oh, yeah," Neal said, a goofy grin spreading across his face. "That's right. Y'already know that."

"Yes, I know a lot about you," Peter answered solemnly.

"I know," Neal said, pouting now. "Takes allllllll the fun out of it."

"Oh, I don't know. Helps me keep you out of trouble."

"Maybe," Neal responded, sounding like he very much doubted this—but was too polite to say it out loud.

Peter chuckled. "So . . . it was nice of Sara to come. In case you couldn't tell, she was very worried about you."

When Neal didn't respond, just gazed at him with a vacant look in his eyes, the agent jerked a thumb toward the door and added lightly, "And speaking of, she left awfully fast. What the hell did you say to make her that flustered?"

The younger man gazed up at him, the picture of wide-eyed—if slightly glassy—innocence. "Huh?"

Neal had to still be seriously doped up to be this inarticulate, Peter reflected, a little disappointed. He'd been hoping to find Neal a bit more lucid. But it was early yet, in his recovery. And anyway, he reminded himself, it was better for Neal to be confused than in pain.

"What. Did. You. Say. To Sara." he repeated patiently, slowing the words way down to a pace he hoped Neal's drug-addled brain could keep up with.

"What did I say?" Say . . ." Neal's bewildered expression looked like a man trying to remember something that had happened thirty years ago instead of thirty seconds ago. "I said . . . umm, we . . . I _did _say somethin' . . . ."

"Obviously," Peter agreed, sliding into the seat Sara had just vacated. "She ran out of here pretty quick," he continued, hoping to jog Neal's memory.

"Yeah," Neal agreed. "Wonder why . . ."

"That's why I thought maybe it was something you said."

"Something I said . . ." Neal repeated, still looking and sounding utterly perplexed. "I said . . ."

Peter sighed inwardly. "Let's try this. What were the two of you talking about?"

Neal frowned; then his face cleared. "She was saying she was sorry. How 'bout that, Peter? She's got nothin' to be sorry about."

"No, she doesn't," Peter agreed.

" 'Cause I started to remember. Y'know, what happened." Neal gulped. "And she _shot_ him. I mean, she totally took him out." The look on Neal's face could only be described as _awestruck_.

"She did."

"Hey," Neal said, reverential expression changing to worry, "she's not gonna get in trouble for that, is she? 'Cause it would really suck if—"

"No, don't worry about it. She's not in trouble."

"Oh, good," Neal said, smiling. "'Cause she saved me, Peter. I mean, she really _saved_ me."

"I know she did," Peter told him.

"And I thanked her," Neal said solemnly. "A lot."

"That's nice," Peter said. "Is that why she left in such a hurry?"

Neal frowned. "Huh? You think that made her leave?"

"I doubt it," Peter responded. "There must have been something else."

A moment later, Neal's eyes widened as a kind of hazy realization dawned.

"Oh m' God, Peter, wait. It was you!" Neal said. He flailed a hand frantically. Peter reached up to gently bat it down, noting Neal's cloudy gaze had taken on a surprising intensity.

"Take it easy, Neal. What do you mean?"

Somehow Neal ended up weakly grabbing his wrist. Peter registered absently that his hand felt warm.

"It was you, you did it, Peter." The look on Neal's face had morphed from shocked to a bit horrified. He let his hand fall limply back down onto the blanket. "I didn' think you'd really do it. How could you—how'd you do that?"

"Do what?" Peter asked, mystified. Neal could be a challenge even on a good day, but he'd kind of forgotten that LoopyNeal was . . . Neal times ten.

And was that accusation that he was hearing in Neal's voice?

"You . . . you got it. You got the—the restraint, the thing . . . restraining . . . ." Neal was starting to get agitated, and now, at the mention of restraints—a sore spot—so was Peter.

"Restraints? What are you talking about?" Peter asked, eyes narrowing as he quickly scrutinized Neal's most definitely _not-cuffed_ wrists. Feeling like an idiot for checking, he nonetheless stood up, lifting Neal's arm and the bedding gently to check for straps—none to be seen—and then moved to the foot of the bed to check Neal's ankles. Nothing there, either.

Were the drugs causing him to hallucinate? Peter couldn't help feeling a little prickle of worry.

"Neal, you're not restrained," Peter said in as soothing a tone as he could manage. He returned to Neal's side, realized that he was looming, and abruptly sat down. "I took care of that. You probably don't know, but I already covered that with the marshals. No one's going to cuff you to the bed. I'm not going to let that happen." He hesitated. "I mean, now that you're awake, we'll have to put the anklet back on, but—"

"No, no, 's not the anklet. You did it to pr'tect me," Neal insisted breathlessly. "The restrain . . . restraining thingie . . ."

Peter shook his head. Neal could be frustratingly single-minded when he was drugged, as Peter had discovered. He'd focus on a topic and stick with it. And stick with it some more, beyond all reason.

Not that Neal was really capable of reason at the moment.

"Neal, listen to me," Peter said, taking Neal's hand in his and lifting it into Neal's line of sight. "See this? You are not restrained. Why are you talking about that?" He paused and then had a thought. "Was it . . . was it Sara? Did she say something about it?"

Neal smiled at him, then, and shook his head in amazement. "Oh, Peter, you are sooo smart."

Peter just stared back. Waiting for something to make sense—but not holding his breath for it to happen anytime soon.

"Yeah, she knew. She said it and she was right. She _knows_ you, Peter," Neal said earnestly. He hesitated and then said, almost to himself, "I thought she was kiddin', though . . ."

"Kidding about you being handcuffed?" Peter said sourly, anger at Sara bubbling up inside him. "Yeah, that's hilarious."

"No, no, nooo, Peter, you don't get it! Thought she was kidding about . . . 'bout the restraining thing, not about handcuffs," Neal said, sounding exasperated, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world and _how could Peter not get it?_

Peter rubbed his forehead. Neal wasn't the only one frustrated by this conversation. He was really tempted to table the whole discussion, but giving up went against his grain. So he tried, one more time, leaving aside the bewildering question of handcuffs that weren't restraints, or was it restraints that weren't handcuffs? Whatever.

He leaned over and stared Neal right in the eyes, gratified to see Neal looking back with a modicum of lucidity. "Okay. Right before Sara left, Neal, what were you talking about? Forget about the restraints or . . . whatever it was. What else? Think about that. _Right_ before."

Neal stared at him, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Well, there was . . . soup," he ventured hesitantly.

"Soup," Peter repeated, thinking he'd heard wrong. Thinking maybe Neal was even further gone than he'd realized.

"Yeah, soup," Neal said. "Y'know, the kind y' eat?" he added, apparently trying to be helpful.

"Mmm. I figured that."

"I was gonna make it for Sara. We talked about it. I make de—delish—I make good soup," Neal informed him, unmistakably proud.

"Is that so?"

"Ha!" Neal said, letting out a laugh that was dangerously close to becoming a giggle. "Peter, I thought you knew everything about me."

"Well, you've never offered _me_ any soup," Peter said, mock-hurt.

"Oh," Neal said, looking guilty. Peter took a moment to savor that, because catching Neal looking guilty was like catching a glimpse of Bigfoot—fleeting and likely to never happen again.

"Sorry, Peter," Neal said, real remorse in his tone. "Do you—d'you like soup?"

"Oh, I think everyone likes soup," Peter informed him gravely.

Neal frowned, thinking that one over. "You're right," he said, sounding embarrassed—another rare occurrence. "I should've offered. When I'm feeling better, 'kay? Best French onion y'ever had."

"I'll look forward to it," Peter said, hiding a smile.

"Hey," Neal interjected, excited now, "does El like soup? She should come, too,"

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled." Peter paused and decided to try one more time. "But I don't think we've answered the question."

"You don't really like soup?"

"Not the soup question, Neal."

"Oh," Neal said, puzzled. He was quiet for a moment, apparently thinking, before he finally admitted defeat. "What—what was the question?"

"The _what were you and Sara talking about right before she raced out of here_ question. I kind of doubt that soup was a factor."

The look of concentration on Neal's scrunched-up face was so intense it almost made Peter laugh. He was about to tell Neal to just forget it, figuring he'd come back later when his consultant was in his right mind—maybe in a week or so.

It was in that moment that Neal exclaimed, so loudly Peter almost jumped.

"The painting!"

He looked triumphant.

It was on the tip of Peter's tongue to say _What painting? _when he froze.

_Christ_.

He knew exactly what painting. Because there could be only one painting that Neal and Sara would be talking about. The Raphael that Sara had tried to nail Neal for stealing, the one she believed (and, in truth, Peter knew she was right to believe) that Neal had stolen.

Hell, the fact that Neal hadn't outright denied having the painting—when Peter had asked him about it directly—had confirmed every suspicion Peter had ever had about the matter. (After all, what had Neal said to him? _I've never lied to you._)

Peter wasn't sure he quite believed that statement. In this case, though, the lack of a denial, to Peter, meant his suspicions were right on target.

But suspicions weren't proof. Unless—_unless_, Peter thought, cold fear flooding through him—unless the accused admitted to the crime. And maybe revealed the location of the incriminating item to an unscrupulous insurance investigator when he was injured and zonked out on painkillers . . . .

His own words from months earlier echoed in his mind. _Neal never confesses._

But what if he had? Peter's mind raced, anger and worry overwhelming rationality. Dammit, had she _planned_ this? Waited until Neal was awake but vulnerable—and not quite clear-headed enough to protect himself. Had she interrogated a man—a man who'd recently taken a bullet for her—while he was under the influence? Had she left in a rush to go to wherever Neal had revealed that he'd stashed that damned painting?

_No, she wouldn't do that_, his emotional side said.

_Except she might_, his protective, rational side answered. He knew Sara, knew exactly how relentless she was when it came to her job.

Neal had known it, too. What was it he'd said the other day? _She looks at me and sees dollar signs. _

And he'd made a statement that now seemed alarmingly prophetic: _She's going to come after me again for that Raphael._

Had Neal's prediction come true?

Peter remembered all too well his last encounter with a drugged Neal (especially since he'd just been thinking about it during his lunch in the conference room earlier that day). The conversation with Neal at the Howser Clinic remained fresh in his mind—particularly Neal's throwaway admission that he'd pilfered the Antioch manuscripts.

It was perhaps the only time he'd ever heard Neal confess to anything.

Being an FBI agent, he'd been congenitally unable to not ask Neal if he'd taken them, and how. But being Peter Burke, he'd never followed up on what Neal had told him.

What he knew about Sara Ellis, though, didn't fill him with confidence that she'd show the same restraint. As Neal had noted, she did indeed stand to make a hell of a lot of money if she ever recovered that Raphael. And she didn't have any stake in protecting Neal.

Not like Peter did.

Peter thought about how Sara had literally run from Neal's room the instant he'd shown up. Of that odd expression on her face—and how it had looked an awful lot like guilt. He found himself looking out the doorway Sara had recently walked through, wanting to follow her, wanting to . . .

"Umm, Peter?" Neal's voice was hesitant and disconcertingly childlike. "Somethin' wrong?"

Peter returned his gaze to Neal's face.

"You look . . ." Neal said, then stopped before saying, "I, um, I thought you'd be happy that I remembered. But you look mad. Are you mad at me, Peter?"

Good Lord, he really did sound like a scared five-year-old.

"No, no. I am not mad at _you_, Neal," Peter said reassuringly, pasting on a smile that felt wholly fake and hoping Neal was too dazed to notice.

"Thass good," Neal said, relief evident. "Really don' like it when you're mad at me, Peter."

"Yeah, it's no fun for me, either," Peter murmured distractedly, mind on Sara. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking about what the hell to do and filled with dread that after everything he'd brought Neal through safely, that _this_ could be his downfall. Fury at Sara was slowly building inside him, that she could be that cold, that calculating . . . .

When he opened his eyes again, Neal was looking away and down. For a moment Peter thought he might have fallen asleep.

Peter took a deep breath. He had to ask—had to find out how bad the situation was. Until he knew that, he couldn't figure out how to fix it.

"Neal?"

"Mmm." Neal looked up blearily with eyes that seemed overly bright to Peter.

"Listen to me, Neal. This is important. What did you tell Sara about the painting? Do you remember?"

"The painting? Oh. 'S beautiful, Peter. It really is," Neal informed him.

"I don't doubt it," Peter said, before dropping all pretense. "Did you tell her where it is?"

Neal chuffed a little laugh. "Oh, now, Peter. If I knew where it was, that would mean I took it. Prob'ly. Right?"

_Well, you did take it, didn't you_? Peter said with a sigh, to himself. Except that it must have been loud enough for Neal to hear, though, because he opened his mouth to respond.

Peter stopped him with a raised hand. "_Don't_ answer that."

The words came out sharper than he'd meant them to. Neal closed his mouth, looking confused.

"Neal, I'm just . . . I'm concerned that you may have said something that could get you in trouble." Peter explained, resolutely ignoring for a moment the ridiculousness of a sworn FBI agent counseling a convicted felon against incriminating himself in an unsolved case.

Really, it was the sort of one-of-a-kind ethical dilemma that only Neal Caffrey could engender.

Neal was watching him closely and smiling now. "Awww, Peter, that's nice, really. But, umm, should you really be sayin' that to me?"

"Probably not," Peter admitted. Fortunately, there was no one else to hear him and he doubted the only witness would be able to recall this conversation.

In fact, he was counting on that last part.

"Don't think I told her," Neal said slowly. "'S _me_, Peter." He reached up, tapped his temple, and then pointed the finger at Peter. "You know—'m smarter than that."

"Under normal circumstances, yes. But you're a little . . . out of it, today, Neal."

"Hmmm," Neal said, considering. "Feel pretty . . . _into_ it. Little hot, maybe . . . but not too bad."

Peter frowned. He reached up to rest a hand on Neal's forehead, concerned to find it slightly warm to the touch. Great. On top of everything else, now Neal might be developing a fever. Which probably wasn't helping his confused mental state any . . . .

"Any chance you might have told her something . . . anything she could use against you?" Peter asked, lifting his hand away and rubbing his own temple in frustration. He could feel a headache coming on.

A giant-sized, Neal-and-Sara-induced headache.

Neal looked at him with alarm, as if this was something he'd never thought of, instead of a topic they'd been discussing for the last several minutes. "Somethin' she'd . . . use against me? D'you really think she'd try to do that?"

Peter sighed and shrugged. "It's possible."

"Well, ev'n if she wanted to, Peter, you got the restraining thing, so she can't," Neal said, beaming again. "You took care of that!"

Back to the restraints again. And yet Neal sounded supremely confident. Peter wished he could share the emotion, but since it seemed to be the product of a drug-induced hallucination, he didn't have that luxury.

Peter got up and paced to the window, the doorway and back. He leaned against the chair, thinking. When he looked back at Neal, his eyes were closed.

If Neal were sleeping, that was fine, he decided. Neal still had a lot of recovering to do, he needed rest badly, and he'd been badgered enough for one day. Hard to conceive that Peter could get anything useful out of him at this point, anyway.

Peter left as quietly as he could, with a last, worried look at his now-unconscious consultant. As soon as he was out of the room, he pulled out his phone and dialed.

After her voice mail greeting ended, he spoke coolly, "Sara, it's Peter. Call me when you get this. We need to talk about Neal."

"Do we?"

He spun quickly when he realized her voice was coming from just behind him. She stood there, watching him, an unreadable look on her face that could have been concern, or wariness.

_Or guilt._ Had she been waiting for him to leave so she could finish interrogating Neal?

"I think we do," he said, clicking the phone off. "But we're not having this discussion in the hallway."

She nodded, raising her eyebrows a little. When she spoke, her voice was clipped. "Sure."

Peter turned and made his way past the bustling nurses' station to the family waiting room down the hall. He didn't wait to see if she followed him, even as anger sped his steps.

_She's not going to get away with this, _he thought, seething inwardly. _I won't let her._

* * *

The waiting room was the typical sterile hospital environment: worn carpeting, minimally padded chairs, a jigsaw puzzle that looked like it had seen better days, a TV mounted high on one wall, screen filled with scrolling stock quotes and a newscaster speaking earnestly above a headline that blared, "Fed considers rate cut."

Fortunately the TV was muted and the room empty.

He strode in and turned to face her, not bothering to sit down. He was about to speak but she beat him to it.

"Peter, I can see that you're upset," she said, then frowned. "Is Neal—he's okay, isn't he?"

"He's fine." A moment later he added, "Well, he was a little worked up—something about restraints?" He watched her closely, saw her eyes narrow—at his words, maybe at his icy tone.

"What—what did Neal say to you?" she asked finally. A little line had formed between her brows.

"I think the better question is, what did he say to _you_?" Peter said, biting each word off.

Sara let out an involuntary little laugh. "Uh, nothing—nothing much. I assume you noticed that he's more or less stoned. Definitely more rather than less."

"Oh, he's not himself," Peter agreed. "But he was still able to tell me quite a bit."

She looked confused.

After the meandering, maddening conversation he'd had with Neal, Peter Burke was tired of waiting. He wanted answers and he wasn't going to be shy about getting them.

"Did he tell you where the painting is?" he demanded.

"The . . . painting?" Peter keyed in to the tone of her voice. She didn't exactly sound surprised, which only served to confirm his suspicions.

His voice was low and fierce. "Did you threaten to arrest him or . . . or handcuff him if he didn't tell you where it was?"

Now she stared at him, aghast.

"What the _hell_ are you talking about? I would never—"

"Never? Really, Sara?" His next words weren't fair, but he found he didn't really care. Somehow, throwing her own words back at her felt good. "You'd _never_ stick a tape recorder in his face, then? You'd _never_ threaten to do 'anything' to keep him talking? Anything to 'nail his ass to the wall' so you could recover that painting?"

He paused for a moment, letting his anger show. "Do you remember that, Sara? Because I sure as hell do."

Biting her lip, she looked away uncomfortably. "Well, yes, but that—that was before." Her voice was hesitant. "That's not the same thing, and you know it."

When he didn't answer, her own anger quickly took over. She fixed him with a withering glare and her voice turned ice-cold. "You cannot be serious."

Peter glared right back, unfazed, although the genuine indignation in her voice was already warning him that she wasn't lying. He was a pretty good judge of people, and he doubted that Sara was capable of faking that kind of raw emotion.

"You _are_ serious." She shook her head in disbelief. "Is that what he said? You know, Peter, I always thought you were so damn smart. Maybe I overestimated you, though, if you're taking the ramblings of a heavily medicated con artist as the gospel truth."

He was already considering how to formulate an apology, but not quickly enough.

"And that he would think—and more importantly, that _you_ would think—that I'd . . . take advantage of him like that, in his condition! That would be a vile, disgusting thing to do. So both of you really think that little of me?" Now she sounded hurt.

To be fair, Neal really hadn't thought that of her, and Peter was about to tell her so, but she wasn't finished.

"And to top it all off, you think, after _everything_ that happened, after everything I did to try to save his life, that I'd want to put him right back in prison? _Jesus_, Peter. What kind of monster do you think I am?" She looked away as he took a step toward her.

It was remarkable, really, how quickly righteous anger could turn to abject shame, Peter thought dourly. She'd reduced him to the equivalent of smoking rubble in less than a minute.

"Sara, look, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry," he said, raising a placating hand. "I started to jump to conclusions, and I was wrong. What I said was . . . totally uncalled for."

She looked at him again, eyes still accusing.

Peter knew he needed to fix this—and fast. "Look, let's . . . let's sit down, okay?"

Sara reluctantly complied, sitting across from him rather than next to him. She stared at him stonily.

"It's not an excuse," he continued, putting as much contrition in his voice as he could muster. "It's just that you left so suddenly and Neal got kind of agitated and . . . ."

Her face softened fractionally, as if in spite of herself. "You . . . you were worried about him."

"Oh, a little bit," Peter admitted, looking away and running a hand through his hair. "Then he started going on about . . . something about restraints and that's been a point of contention with the marshals' service, so that kind of set _me_ off, and—"

"Restraints?" she cut in, frowning. "What's that about?"

"The Marshals haven't been happy because Neal isn't wearing his anklet."

"_Neal_ can't carry on a coherent conversation. They're worried about him fleeing the country?"

Peter sighed. "That's what they get paid to worry about."

"Well, they should worry about felons who can, actually, you know, walk. There must be plenty of them out there," she said tartly. "But that's not what I meant. Why was Neal talking about restraints?"

He waved a hand. "Hell if I know. He starting going on about restraints, that he couldn't believe I would do that, but then he said it was to protect him, and . . . something about why you left?" He shrugged. "Like you said, Neal's heavily medicated. He wasn't making a whole lot of sense."

She stared at him intently for a few long seconds, an odd look on her face. Then her eyes widened with sudden realization.

"Oh, my God," she said suddenly, and laughed. "Oh, my God. Of all things . . . I never imagined that he'd remember that."

"What?"

"It's, um, kind of a long story."

"I've got time if you do."

She nodded. "Yeah, sure. You'll appreciate this."

Taking a deep breath, she started. "After Neal—after everything happened—we had to wait for the paramedics."

He nodded.

"It felt like it took forever for them to come. He was conscious, but bleeding so badly and I thought he was dying." She cleared her throat and he knew she was playing for time, knew she didn't want to say the words—just as he didn't want to hear them. "I . . . I was _sure_ he was dying, Peter."

"So I just sat there and talked to him. Tried to keep him awake, keep him talking. I felt like, if I could do that, he wouldn't die, you know? I just . . ." her voice faltered, then died away—and Peter knew she was back in that moment of horror.

Sara looked away for a few seconds. When she met his gaze again, he could see unshed tears glistening in her eyes.

Instantly, he reached into his pocket and held out his handkerchief, just as he had on that day. "Here, take mine."

"You're always prepared," she said, accepting it with a wan smile.

He shrugged, smiled back. "Boy Scout. What can I say—it's ingrained."

"This is ridiculous," Sara muttered under her breath. She was angry with herself, angry at her own lack of control. He waited patiently while she gathered herself, taking a deep breath to clear her head.

"So," she said, a little more matter-of-fact, "I knew he was dying. And he did, too."

Peter was very still, eyes locked on hers.

"He talked about you then, you know," she said, suddenly remembering.

_I never told him._

She had refused to consider it, that day in the hospital waiting room, waiting to hear if Neal would live or die. She'd felt, superstitiously, that if she relayed Neal's words to Peter, that somehow that meant that Neal wouldn't make it.

When Peter looked a question at her, she added, "He wanted me to tell you something. At first, I told him to shut up, that he could tell you himself."

He laughed, because it really did sound very much like something Sara would say.

"But he just kept at it. He said, several times, to tell you not to blame yourself, that what happened wasn't your fault. He was sure you'd feel guilty." She paused before adding, "Neal knows you pretty well, I think."

"Too well," Peter said with a wry smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Then he said—he insisted—that he had to thank you for all you tried to do." Sara paused, focusing on the exact words. "He said you took a risk with him, and he knew it. That he . . . he tried not to let you down and—this part I distinctly remember—he said, _Sometimes I even succeeded._"

Peter looked away, realizing that it wasn't even the first time he'd heard similar words from Neal.

_Given my history, I didn't know if anyone could believe that I could change . . . . Fortunately for me, one person did believe it. Special Agent Burke took a chance on me. He's given me a chance to make up for what I've done, to make a real contribution. And it means the world to me._

Neal's voice, that day in court, when he'd surprised Rita by speaking up about Peter.

Peter swallowed hard against a lump that had suddenly risen in his throat. He thought about that statement of Neal's, delivered so convincingly on the witness stand. Of how he'd told Rita that Neal probably didn't mean it.

Of how wrong, apparently, he'd been.

Peter remembered that little speech of Neal's vividly, because it had inspired equal parts hope and hesitation. Hope that maybe Neal was finally starting to get it, to understand a little of what Peter was trying to show him. And hesitation—because Neal was Neal and you could never quite take anything he said at face value. With Neal, there was always that dichotomy between what he _said _and what he _meant. _All too often, they weren't the same thing.

He'd often thought about Neal's words since that day in court and pondered their true meaning. Yet he'd never asked Neal about them. Why hadn't he? Now he felt oddly ashamed that he'd never raised the topic with Neal, that he'd assumed there was no need.

Because, while it was certainly within the realm of possibility that Neal had been doing a bit of play-acting for the jury that day, there would be no reason for Neal, bleeding out from two gunshot wounds, to do anything but speak from the heart. He'd meant every word, and the knowledge filled Peter with pride.

Sara was watching him intently, likely seeing the emotion on his face but not quite understanding all the reasons for it. She continued after another pause, "Then Neal—he said I ought to ask him about the painting."

She dabbed at her eyes, an impatient gesture.

"Which made me want to smack him, because he—because I knew what he meant." Sara looked away.

Peter nodded, mouth suddenly dry. Neal would never have offered to talk about the painting—unless he truly believed he was dying. Unless he thought he wouldn't have another chance.

"A week ago, if you'd have called and offered me the chance to question Neal Caffrey about that damned painting, I would have broken an ankle to get there." She shook her head. "And now, there he was, volunteering to tell me and all I wanted him to do was stop talking. Hard to believe, isn't it?"

Peter smiled. "Not really. Because, contrary to the image you so carefully cultivate, you actually do have a heart. And Neal . . . well, Neal has a way of . . . ."

"Getting to you," she finished, waving a hand in a _what can you do_ gesture.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "He does."

"Even when you know exactly what he is and what he does—he can still do it to you," she said in a tone of wonderment.

"He's got a gift," he said, then, voice sharper, "What, you think he was conning you?"

"No," she replied quietly. "I know he wasn't."

She looked up, blinked more tears away.

"I told him he wasn't dying, so I'd ask him about the painting later, when he was in the hospital. On the good drugs, right? But then I laughed and told him that you'd probably get a restraining order to keep me away. You know, just joking around with him."

Peter waited expectantly. When she didn't continue, his eyes narrowed. A moment later, Sara watched comprehension dawn as his eyes lit up.

"Ah," he said slowly. "A _restraining _order. That explains why he kept babbling on about restraints. He must've thought—what? That I actually got a restraining order to keep you away?"

"I never thought he'd remember that—or believe it," she said, shaking her head. "Because his response at the time was to laugh and tell me that I really didn't understand your relationship."

Somehow she wasn't at all surprised when Peter nodded and said, with a little chuckle, "Well, it's complicated."

"_Goddamn it_," she said, shaking her head. "That is _exactly_ what _he_ said."

Peter didn't seem surprised either; he just shrugged, but he couldn't keep an affectionate little grin from his face.

"This mind-meld thing the two of you have going on? It's a little scary," she pointed out. "Shouldn't that worry you?"

"How much we think alike? Probably," he admitted. "But I guess I've gotten used to the fact that my thought processes often mirror those of a convicted felon. Now I tell myself it's something I do deliberately to aid my job performance."

Sara frowned. "Is that actually, um, true?"

He smiled and shrugged again, helplessly. "Well, it sounds good, anyway, don't you think?"

She paused to ponder that for a moment.

Although she had been only indirectly involved in the chase of Neal Caffrey, Sara had nonetheless realized early on that he wasn't just another suspect to Peter Burke. The hunt had gone on too long, and Neal had master-minded too many spectacular feats to ever blend in with the run-of-the-mill white collar criminals that Peter investigated on a daily basis.

She'd always had a sneaking suspicion that Peter had a real, if secret, appreciation of Neal's capabilities. And that didn't mean that Peter didn't want to catch him—quite the opposite. Peter couldn't help but have a grudging sort of respect for the skills, the smarts, the daring that was the very essence of Neal Caffrey. But knowing how good Neal was had only made Peter want to apprehend him more—almost to the point of obsession, really. And it wasn't surprising that, over time, Peter had learned to think like Neal.

Otherwise, Peter might never have caught him.

"Well," she said, "even if you do think disturbingly like an ex-con, at least you've still got a moral compass."

He gave her a searching look. "Oh, Neal's got a moral compass. It's just a little bit . . . askew."

"True," she admitted. 'You're just . . . adjusting it a bit, right?"

Peter nodded approval. "Working on it."

"Mmm. How's that coming?"

"It's a process," he said, looking away and heaving a sigh.

"Well, if anyone's got a shot of doing that, you're the guy," she said. It sounded like the ultimate cliché, but she realized she actually meant it.

"Thanks."

"And having seen what seemed to be the entire FBI lining up to be on Team Neal the other day in the waiting room . . . well, I get the impression that maybe you've already made a lot more progress than I realized."

They exchanged a smile.

"You know," she interjected, "this doesn't mean I've given up on finding that painting."

"Didn't think you would."

Sara's expression changed to one of exasperation. "Though I've come to realize," she continued, "that the hell of it is, I probably can't ask him about it again without feeling incredibly guilty, somehow."

He cocked his head at her and grinned. "Well, look on the bright side. It's not as if he was going to tell you about it, anyway."

"True," she said, grinning back.

"And you left his room in such a hurry today because . . . ." He didn't finish the sentence, but he was pretty sure he already knew why.

"Because a barely lucid convicted felon would _not stop yammering_ about a certain missing painting," she told him, faux-annoyed. "My options were: take advantage of the poor drugged man, run from the room, or plug my ears and shout 'la la la.' I chose option two."

He smiled at her, looking very pleased, and she felt an odd sense of pride.

Her phone rang and Peter got up to look out the window and give her a little privacy while she talked. When Sara hung up, he turned back.

"I've got to get back to the office," she said.

'Yeah, I'm gonna check in on Neal."

They walked to the door, where Sara stopped. "I'm glad we talked, Peter."

"Yeah, me too. And, Sara? I am sorry."

"Don't worry about it. And tell Neal . . . oh hell. Tell him whatever you want, but it would be nice if he knew I didn't try to interrogate him when he was out of his mind on painkillers."

"Oh, right," Peter said, looking guilty. "Just so you know . . . Neal didn't think you tried to interrogate him," Peter admitted. "To tell you the truth, he was horrified by the suggestion."

She rolled her eyes. "Good to know I live up to a criminal's high ethical standards. See ya later, Peter."

Peter followed her down the hall. She stopped by the elevators and he continued back to Neal's room.

He really didn't like what he found there.

_TBC . . . ._

_A/N - I don't know if I should say this - if readers care about this/want to hear this or not - but I sort of feel compelled to say (given that this has dragged on longer than I wanted it to): we are in the home stretch of this story now. Only a few chapters to go._

_Thank you for reading. Feedback always appreciated!_


	16. Your Own Speeding Car

**Not a Fan of the Bittersweet**

**Chapter 16**

**Your Own Speeding Car **

"_When you're young, you think everything you do is disposable. You move from now to now, to crumpling time up in your hands, tossing it away. You're your own speeding car. You think you can get rid of things, and people too—leave them behind. You don't yet know about the habit they have, of coming back.  
Time in dreams is frozen. You can never get away from where you've been." _  
― Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin _

* * *

The trouble started even before he made it back to Neal's room, when Peter noticed a minor commotion at the nurses' station. The reason for the commotion became quickly apparent.

"—don't think that's permitted," he heard one of the nurses say as he neared the desk. _Neal's_ nurse, Peter realized with a sigh; he'd met Sandy earlier. She was addressing a tall African-American man wearing a suit. A cheap-looking, ill-fitting suit.

And just when, Peter thought, had he become the kind of person who immediately keyed in on the look and cut of someone's suit? He sighed inwardly, because, actually, Peter did know: it was right around the time he started working with a certain style-conscious ex-con.

Peter couldn't see the man's face—his back was to Peter—but he could see Sandy's. She looked worried. And their voices were loud enough that he could hear them even though he was some distance away.

"Ma'am, I assure you, it's not only permitted, it's required," the man said, with a smug note in his voice that set Peter's teeth on edge. "Your patient is a prisoner, in federal custody, and he's a known flight risk. The Marshals Service has full jurisdiction over the circumstances of his confinement."

_Goddamnit. _Peter sped up.

Sandy's manner was hesitant; she was young and no match for Williams' brand of typical law-enforcement arrogance. But she tried anyway. "Have you . . . cleared this with Agent Burke?"

That brought a derisive chuckle. "As a U.S. Marshal, ma'am, I'm certainly not required to clear my actions in this matter with any outside agency."

"But Agent Burke, he's in charge of Neal—of Mr. Caffrey, and I think he'd—"

"Agent Burke isn't here," the man said, talking right over her in a voice so patronizing that if Peter didn't know better, he would have sworn the man was explaining something to a child. "Which means—"

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," Peter said coolly. He saw relief register on Sandy's face as she caught sight of him. Flashing his badge for good measure, he got right up close to the marshal, in a blatant disregard of personal space.

The marshal turned, a forbidding expression on his face.

"Special Agent Burke, FBI. Is there a problem?" Peter kept his voice even. Though, of course, he already knew what this was about.

The marshal just looked irritated.

"Deputy Marshal Josiah Williams." The marshal waved a badge, but didn't offer a hand. Peter didn't either. "I'm here about Neal Caffrey."

"Yeah, I figured that part out," Peter said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

"Congratulations," Williams shot back, his sarcasm matching Peter's. His lips curled into an unpleasant smile. "Except somehow you didn't figure out that Caffrey's in a regular room, with no anklet and no guard. I'd have thought a smart man like you could _figure out _that that means he has to be restrained."

"I'm aware of that. Which is why I'm here, until one of my agents arrives with another electronic monitor," Peter lied smoothly, and without a trace of remorse. _Just like Neal, _he couldn't help thinking.

In fact Neal probably would have been proud.

"You're here," Williams pointed out. "You're not with the prisoner."

"The _prisoner _is recovering from multiple gunshot wounds," Peter snapped. He thought back to that day in the waiting room, to what _bastards _those marshals had been, and took a deep breath. "He's not going anywhere. And as Caffrey's custodial agent, I'm well aware of the requirements regarding his confinement. I've been dealing with this for the past year, so save the protocol lecture for someone who needs it."

"With all due respect, Agent Burke"—interesting how that phrase, Peter thought, usually indicated an utter _lack_ of respect, especially in this case, when Williams' voice fairly dripped with contempt—"that's not your call to make."

"Neal Caffrey is _my_ custody."

"In theory, I guess he is. In reality? You're not with him." Williams gestured with his hand, indicating Peter's presence. "Meanwhile, he's awake and you've just confirmed that he's not restrained. If you consider that being in _custody_, then I'd have to question your professional acumen. Because a dangerous criminal like Caffrey needs to be locked down."

Glancing over at the nurse, Peter saw her eyes widen at that description of Neal. The rest of the nurses—not to mention a few other bystanders—were eyeing them as well. He silently cursed the fact that all of this had been aired in front of a crowd.

"Dangerous?" Peter scoffed, and now his temper was getting the best of him. "The only danger Caffrey poses is to the marshals' reputation. Seeing as how he's proven their professional ineptitude over and over again."

Williams' face darkened with anger, but before he could speak, Peter cut him off.

"Now, if you'll come with me. We need to take this discussion elsewhere." Peter said, jerking his head in the direction of the corridor, away from the desk.

Williams didn't move. "Actually, what we need to do is make sure the prisoner is secure," he said, and there was that patronizing tone again, except this time he was using it on Peter, who was having to expend an enormous amount of energy just keeping his cool.

"Fine. This way," Peter said shortly. He turned and walked down the hallway toward Neal's room, with Williams close behind.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Peter began to key in a quick one-handed text. He was annoyed with Williams, yes—but also with himself. In all the excitement of Neal's waking up, he'd kind of lost sight of the anklet—specifically, that Neal wasn't wearing it. But now that Neal was awake, he should be. Peter had figured he'd have a little more time before the marshals came sniffing around. A mistaken assumption, obviously.

Peter stopped when they'd gotten far enough away from the nurses' station. "Caffrey's in his room."

"Let's hope so." Williams eyed him scornfully. "I mean, you're not there. How the hell would you know?"

"He's not going anywhere."

"Bastard escaped from supermax. A hospital would be child's play."

Peter smiled; he knew it was feral. "What, you think he went out the window?"

"Wouldn't be the first time." Williams retorted.

Christ, he was right; Peter had forgotten about Neal's swan dive after being arrested for the diamond theft. Well, he'd walked right into that one, but Peter recovered quickly. "Oh, that's right. I'd forgotten about that, since after all, he wasn't in _my _custody at the time. Nice job securing the judge's chambers, by the way."

Peter smiled wider. He was enjoying the infuriated expression on Williams' face way, way too much.

"Caffrey is lying in bed with two bullet holes in him," Peter spat. "Three, really, since one was a through-and-through. He's on painkillers and barely conscious—"

"He woke up and was feeling good enough to be transferred to a regular room, right?" Williams shot back. 'And you're not with him. He could be anywhere."

Peter blew out a breath. He could only push this guy so far. Hughes wasn't around to defuse things this time, and Peter needed to keep the endgame in mind. The goal here was to make sure Neal didn't end up handcuffed to a goddamned hospital bed. Surely the best way to do that, as galling as it might be, was to mollify this man, not piss him off. Because there was the little detail that, technically, Williams was right. Neal _was_ supposed to be monitored at all times.

"Marshal, I understand your concern," Peter said, trying to sound reasonable and accommodating. "But I think once you've seen Caffrey, you'll understand the circumstances. This way."

* * *

"Oh, shit."

Blake looked up at the muttered curse to see Agent Jones frowning at his phone. "What is it?"

Jones sighed. "We've got a little . . . situation at the hospital."

"What? Is it Neal?"

"No. Well, sort of. Neal's okay, but Peter's not."

"Peter?" Blake asked, confused.

"Yeah. The marshals showed up."

"Oh, shit." Blake said.

"Exactly," Jones replied.

Returning from the conference room, Diana interjected, "What's going on?"

Jones pushed back from his desk. "Got a text from Peter. The marshals just showed up at the hospital and they've started a pissing contest."

Diana looked pained. "Great. What does he need?"

"Just Neal's new anklet." Jones was already getting up and putting on his suit jacket.

"You're okay going?" she asked. "I can go; I just would need to call Christy—"

"Don't sweat it," Jones told her. "I got this."

Diana gave him a relieved nod. "Appreciate that. So Peter's okay?"

Jones cracked a smile. "Guess I'll find out. Hopefully neither of them will be handcuffed when I get there."

"Do you mind if I come?"

Jones and Diana both turned to look at him, then at each other. Blake saw Diana smile, just a little.

"You don't have to," Jones answered. "I can handle it."

"Oh, I know," Blake assured him. "It's just . . . I was thinking I'd go visit Neal anyway."

"Sure, why miss out on the fun?" Jones said with a grin. He made his way toward the stairs, presumably to retrieve Neal's anklet.

"Tell Neal I said hi," Diana offered. "And that I'll stop by tomorrow."

"Will do," Blake said.

"And tell him to stay out of trouble," she added.

"It doesn't sound like that'll be a problem." Blake said, thinking of what Agent Burke had said earlier, about Neal being out of it.

Diana gave him a semi-incredulous look. "You really don't know Caffrey at all, do you?"

* * *

As he led Williams back to Neal's room, Peter betrayed no sign of the anxiety he felt. He needed to tread carefully here—and hopefully Neal would cooperate by being flat on his back and asleep in bed. The thought made Peter feel mildly guilty, but there was no denying that, for right now, the worse Neal looked, the better.

Pushing the door open brought back a memory for Peter—of that dream he'd had, looking for Neal in that creepy, abandoned house. Every time he'd opened a door, Neal wasn't there. He briefly imagined the hospital bed empty and Neal gone. Possibly with the window open. Or that Neal would be merely awake, sitting upright and looking, to Williams' eyes, bright-eyed and ready to escape, maybe saying something cocky that he and Peter would both regret.

But of course, that wasn't an issue. In reality, Neal had just come through major surgery and was lucky to be alive. He was in pain, barely awake, and hardly capable of any sort of typical Caffrey-esque escape.

In fact, when Peter opened the door, Neal completed the pathetic picture by being asleep. His eyes were closed and his body twitched for a moment, in the throes of some dream, maybe. Peter felt relief that Neal was still out of it, followed quickly by remorse (of course, this was an extenuating circumstance).

He walked into the room, conscious of the marshal at his heels, and stopped at the foot of the bed. "Neal?"

When Neal didn't answer, Peter stated the obvious. "See, he's asleep."

Williams, seemingly paying no heed, kept walking, striding up to the side of the bed. Peter tried to control an automatic reaction of unease at how close the marshal was to Neal when he was in such a helpless state. It didn't even make sense. Williams was a federal officer in full view of an FBI agent; it wasn't like he was going to do anything to hurt Neal. But Peter stood very close, anyway.

"Well, Jesus Christ on a biscuit," Williams said, surveying Neal and sounding mildly surprised. "He looks like shit."

_No kidding, asshole, _Peter thought, but as satisfying as it would be to voice the words, he knew it would be counterproductive. So instead he said, "He's had a hell of a week. And only out of intensive care for a few hours."

Williams stared at Neal for another long few seconds, as Peter watched. Then he shifted his gaze to look Peter in the eyes, pausing as if considering his words carefully.

"You understand, with Caffrey's history, that I'm required to see that he's secured."

Peter nodded.

"But I do have . . . discretion in accomplishing that. If I can be assured that appropriate measures are being taken . . . ."

"They are," Peter cut in, sensing the opening that Williams was—surprisingly—giving him.

"A new tracking anklet is being brought here?"

"It's on the way. He'll be wearing it very shortly, and your people will be able to monitor him just like always."

Williams tapped a finger on the bed rail. "They'll want to set the radius for this building. Maybe this floor."

"He's not going anywhere for a while," Peter said, shrugging. Neal would be annoyed if he found out, but it wasn't going to matter. Peter would get it reset when Neal was well enough to go home.

"And in the meantime . . . ."

"I'll be . . . guarding him," Peter finished the sentence. He knew that, to a suspicious U.S. Marshal, _I'm guarding him _would sound a lot better than the truth (which was, _I'm staying here to make sure he's okay)._

Williams observed him. He glanced down at Neal and then back up again. "Yeah. Well. Doesn't look like it'll be too taxing for you."

Peter almost said, _Neal doesn't want to run, anyway, _but he knew better than to convey anything but a grim sense of seriousness when it came to the marshals and Neal. So instead he said, solemnly, "I'll watch him until the tracker arrives. We'll give you a call."

Williams nodded assent and pulled a card out of his pocket, handing it to Peter. "Call me direct; I'll have our guys re-establish the radius."

He turned to go, but Peter stopped him by extending a hand. "Marshal, thank you for your cooperation."

Williams shook Peter's hand and shrugged. "Just so we're clear—it's your ass if anything happens." He glanced down at Neal. "But I don't think even Caffrey could pull anything in that condition."

* * *

After Peter had successfully gotten rid of Williams and had gone through a quick explanation at the nurse's station, he returned to Neal's room, expecting to find him sleeping peacefully. Instead he found Neal mumbling, his words incoherent. Peter came quickly to his side.

"Neal? You okay? Can I get you something?"

Peter watched in worry as Neal moved restlessly under the bedcovers, apparently asleep and dreaming. His face glistened with a light sheen of sweat that hadn't been there before.

"Kate …" he whispered hoarsely. "No."

Peter felt a chill run down his spine.

Uneasily, he bent over the bed, trying to get Neal to focus on him. His first thought was to shake him awake, but he hesitated, remembering Neal's comment about how much it hurt to move. "Neal. Hey, Neal. You're dreaming. It's all right. Wake up for me, now. Come on, you can do it."

Suddenly Neal jerked, hard, and Peter put a hand on him reflexively, hoping to be a calming influence. He nearly recoiled at the heat he felt. Neal's eyes flew open, but they were glassy and unseeing, the pupils shockingly huge black discs surrounded by a thin ring of blue. He said fiercely, "Let me go. Let me go! Kate! _Kate_!" and thrashed around wildly on the bed. A moment later, he'd knocked out his IV line,

"_Neal!_" Urgency made his voice rise. "Stop it. You're going to hurt yourself. Wake up."

Neal was still moaning and moving, apparently not hearing anything Peter said.

Peter jabbed at the call button. A few moments later, Sandy's voice came through the speaker, sounding tinny. "Yes, Neal?"

"This is Agent Burke," he said tersely, "Neal's . . . I think he's running a fever. He pulled his IV out."

"_No!" _Neal burst out. "Kate!"

Peter tried to contain Neal's frantic, twisting movements as gently as he could by holding fast and laying his free arm across his chest. "Just take it easy, Neal, okay?" he muttered.

The nurse must have heard Neal in the background, because she didn't ask any questions, just said. "I'll be right there right away, Agent Burke."

Now, Neal was crying out _No, no, no_ over and over again. He didn't sound angry anymore. He sounded desperate and terrified, and the sound was heartrending. It was hard to imagine that he was doing anything but flashing back to Kate's death, and now Peter was doing the same.

The odd thing was that on that day, Neal had been frighteningly quiet. He'd struggled to escape Peter's grasp, but after calling Kate's name—screaming it, really—Neal hadn't said a word. And then he wouldn't respond when Peter grabbed him and shook him, fearing he couldn't reach Neal at all through the horror that enveloped him as the smoke and heat had dissipated.

And all the while, both of them were covered in tiny little bits of the plane—and presumably, of Kate. Peter shuddered at the memory.

Resolutely ignoring his own growing dread at Neal's unhinged state, Peter muttered comforting nonsense, one hand still wrapped around Neal's. After a few moments of this, Neal finally quieted, his eyes closed once again. Though calmer, Neal still didn't seem aware of his surroundings, and that frightened Peter more than anything. He felt as if his heart were in his throat and swallowed hard.

At that moment, the nurse came in. "He's really warm," Peter said worriedly (and, he realized, unnecessarily. "And he's not making sense. I don't think he's hearing me at all."

Sandy nodded acknowledgment and then turned her attention to her patient. "How are we doing, Neal? A little restless, so I've heard. Really now, tearing out your IV line is no way to get out of here," Sandy joked softly as she placed a finger on his neck and counted for a few seconds, looking at her watch, and frowning as she muttered to herself, "A little fast."

Peter watched closely, hoping for some indication that Neal was reacting to her words or her touch. Worryingly, he could see nothing.

Then again, maybe that was for the best. Peter felt his heart twist when he thought of the panicked, frantic Neal of a few minutes ago, lost and helpless in a nightmare of terror.

Next the nurse laid a hand on his forehead and her frown deepened. "Oh, this won't do, Neal, not at all." Sandy inserted the thermometer in his ear and removed it upon hearing the beep. She gave it a disapproving glance, as if the thermometer were to blame, before setting it on the bedside table. Neal lay still and unresponsive throughout the entire process. Finally she looked up at Peter and sighed.

"I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear that his temp is up—the delirium is a clear sign. I'm going to page Dr. McPherson to see what we can do about this fever, then I'll be right back to fix up his IV." She left without another word.

Peter walked around the bed to the space the nurse had just vacated. He scooped up the thermometer and sighed. The display read 104.3. Peter was no doctor, but he knew that was way the hell too high for an adult.

Fear mingled with frustration and set him on edge. There was little to do but sit there and feel useless while he waited for her to return. Peter brought some washcloths from the bathroom, which he drenched with cold water and used to wipe the sweat off Neal's face. Neal seemed to respond a little to that, Peter was thankful to see. He had calmed down, but still wasn't awake, and when he talked, what was comprehensible made no sense.

"Burns." Neal muttered. "It . . . burns."

"I know, Neal, you're burning up. But the doctor'll be here soon. They'll get you cooled down before you know it."

"Can't . . . make it." Neal moved his head from side to side, grimacing. "Hurts too much."

"Neal, you're gonna be okay. I promise," Peter said, hearing the worry in his own voice.

Neal sighed. "Tell him . . . for me. Tell Peter."

Peter felt his heart stutter, At least Neal wasn't thinking about Kate any more, but now he apparently was remembering the day he'd been shot, when he'd told Sara to relay his last words to Peter. He leaned forward. "You're going to be fine. You're okay."

"Tell him. You have to tell him . . . ."

"I'm right here, Neal. What did you want to tell me?"

But Neal, lost in a world of his own, wasn't talking to him. "Promise me, 'kay Sara? Promise you—you'll tell him." He sounded desolate. Hopeless.

"I will, okay? I will," Peter soothed, feeling mildly awkward about pretending to be Sara, but also feeling like he had no choice. The despair in Neal's voice was gut-wrenching, and a little lie seemed a more-than-acceptable trade-off. "What did you want to tell him, Neal?"

"Not 's fault."

"I'll tell him," Peter promised. "You can tell him yourself, later though. Don't worry, okay?"

Neal exhaled, long and slow. "I tried. Really tried."

"I know you did, Neal. You do."

"Made mistakes, but . . . ."

"You've done good, Neal. You _are_ doing good. You will do good. Just rest for now."

"People say I— I'm crazy," Neal continued in a tone of semi-dazed wonderment. "But Peter . . . he got me out of jail. Me! Big risk."

Peter nodded, and even though Neal's delirium was obviously a concern, he couldn't help smiling inwardly at his consultant's unvarnished (not to mention slightly awe-struck) description of things.

"Hell—_helluva _risk," Neal said, with solemn, careful emphasis, sounding like every college buddy Peter had ever known—after multiple cups of grain alcohol punch, that is. "I mean, _seriously_."

"You know why he did that, Neal?" Peter decided he might as well respond. "Because he thought you were worth it. You _are_ worth it."

Neal shook his head, chortling to himself. " 'S so wild."

Peter jumped when the door opened; it was the nurse returning. She efficiently re-established the IV line and left, assuring him Dr. McPherson was on his way.

Since Neal had quieted, Peter spent the next few minutes pacing restlessly, wondering where the hell the doctor was.

Then he heard Sandy saying in a low voice, ". . . no awareness of self or surroundings," and he turned to see the door open and Sandy and Dr. McPherson enter.

"I'm Dr. McPherson," he said, shaking Peter's hand.

"Agent Peter Burke."

"I understand Neal's not himself," the doctor said. Peter reiterated what he'd told the nurse, and McPherson listened as he assessed Neal. He checked his pulse and breathing, opened up his eyes and shone a light in, doing the same with his throat. Following that, the doctor reinserted the thermometer and shook his head at the result as Peter watched anxiously. As with the nurse, Neal was completely unresponsive through the poking and prodding. Dr. McPherson turned away and muttered a few words to Sandy; Peter caught something about "cooling" before the doctor turned back to him.

"Well, as you know, his temp has risen a bit. He's at 104.3 right now, and I don't plan to wait around and see if your partner can fight it off on his own." The doctor looked down at Neal. "I'm going to give him something for the fever. And Sandy's bringing in a cooling blanket; we'll leave that on him for a while to make him more comfortable and help bring his temp down."

He paused and glanced up at Peter. "The concern, of course, is that the fever indicates an infection in one of the wounds."

Peter swallowed, nodded.

"Neal's been on a course of antibiotics designed to prevent that, but infections are always a danger. I won't jump to conclusions, but we can't rule anything out, either. I'm going to order some blood work that will tell us what we're up against."

Neal was given an injection; then Sandy returned with the cooling blanket. She carefully lifted the covers off Neal and together she and the doctor replaced them with the blanket. Neal shifted and let out a little sigh but otherwise did not react.

"This should help," the doctor announced on his way out the door. "The fever's consuming all his energy right now, and we're going to try to knock it down while we see what we're dealing with. Oh, one more thing. This blanket will feel good to Neal at first, but eventually he's going to get chilled and may want to take it off. Let us be the judge of that, okay?"

Peter nodded and McPherson left. Shortly thereafter another staffer came in to draw the blood the doctor had ordered.

Well, even without the matter of the anklet, Peter wasn't going to be leaving any time soon. As he looked down at Neal's flushed face, Peter knew he had a phone call to make and a text to send. He texted Jones first, telling him not to bother rushing over with the anklet.

Because Peter wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

Back in Brooklyn, Elizabeth waited and worried. She was accustomed—sadly, all too accustomed—to calls from Peter that he'd be late for dinner. Or too late to eat dinner at all. But normally the reason was a break in a case, or a hastily-planned stakeout.

When he'd called late in the afternoon to tell her he wouldn't be home (and that the reason was Neal), she'd tensed.

"What's wrong?" she asked, heart sinking. Neal had been getting better. "When I saw him earlier today he was tired and . . . kind of confused, but he didn't seem sick."

Peter sighed. "Neal's had a setback since then." At her sound of alarm, he amended quickly. "He's running a fever, not making any sense."

"Oh, no. They're not putting him back in intensive care, are they?"

"Nobody's saying anything about that yet," he assured her. Immediately Elizabeth wished she could take the words back. She could tell from Peter's tone that that thought hadn't even occurred to him—but now it was yet another thing he'd worry about. "They have a cooling blanket on him and they're running more tests to see if he has some kind of infection."

She frowned. "Do you want me to come down there?"

"No, El. I just . . . I—he's pretty out of it. And someone has to be with him until we get his anklet back on, anyway. I'm going to hang out here for a while."

"Of course. You sure you wouldn't like some company?"

"I always like your company," he told her, and that made her smile. "But there's no need. I've got some work here with me, and my laptop, so I can keep busy. I'm sorry I won't be home for dinner, though. You already started it, right?"

"Yep, but it can wait. I'll keep it warm for you."

"Okay, but don't wait for me to eat," he warned. "I'm sorry, hon. I don't know how long I'll be here."

"Don't you dare apologize, Peter," she told him. "You stay as long as you need to."

_As long as Neal needs you to,_ she thought but didn't voice it.

Really, she didn't need to.

* * *

With that task finished, Peter went back to watching Neal. He'd told El that he had work he could do, which was true. The problem was that he was too keyed up, too worried to focus on it. For the moment, he just focused on his partner.

Neal had started to wake up again, muttering under his breath. At first Peter couldn't decipher the words, but then Neal exclaimed, with surprising clarity, "No. Don'—don' let go!"

He sounded childlike and lost and the note of helplessness in his voice tore at Peter's heart. Neal's eyes remained closed, his hand feeling blindly, restlessly, along the blanket, as if searching for something.

"I won't," Peter managed. On an impulse, he grabbed onto Neal's hand. It felt odd to be continually holding Neal's hand like this, but if it helped . . . .

"I've got you, Neal."

"Don't let go. You'll fall. I've got you. Just hold on, okay?" Neal was practically pleading—and not, Peter realized belatedly, talking to him. He was dreaming again. Probably about Kate or Alex falling off a museum wall or a castle roof or whatnot. His grip on Peter's hand had constricted enough to make the agent grit his teeth in response.

"I'm holding on."

"Don't let go," Neal repeated. "_Don't._"

"I won't."

"I can't—can't lose you," Neal said, despondency in every syllable. "Not now."

Peter swallowed hard. "You won't. I promise."

"Please, If you let go—" Neal's voice broke and Peter felt as if his heart was being squeezed in his chest.

"It's okay, Neal. I—I'm holding on. Feel it?" Peter asked, squeezing a little tighter and hoping Neal could at least feel that.

" 'Kay," Neal mumbled, following that up with something else that Peter couldn't make out He maintained that crushing grip on Peter's hand for a few more minutes, but eventually Neal's fingers loosened and finally let go. He twisted around in the bed, restive, as if trying to escape from something, and now Peter could hear him saying what sounded like _please no, stop. _Peter felt his gut twist uneasily.

"Just rest, Neal, okay? You're okay." Tentatively he touched Neal's arm, but this time Neal jerked away as if burned, and Peter took his hand away.

"Can you hear me, Neal? It's me. It's Peter."

If Neal heard, he gave no sign.

Watching warily, Peter didn't know if he should do anything. But what could he do? Neal wasn't hearing him, and now he was reacting fearfully even to Peter touching him.

Neal was quiet for a few moments and then muttered, in a lower tone, "—gettin' closer, y'know."

Peter had no idea what he was talking about this time. "Who's getting closer, Neal?"

Neal grunted. "Hate t' admit it, but you're right. 'Bout him."

"About who?" Peter asked curiously.

"Burke."

Peter froze. "_Burke?_"

"Th' FBI agent. Y'know the one . . . ." Neal's voice faltered.

"Uh, the—the one who's been chasing you," Peter supplied. This was getting weirder and weirder. He wondered who Neal thought he was talking to. Kate? Mozzie? Alex, maybe?

"Yeah," Neal said heavily. "He's . . . he's trouble."

"Well, he is smart," Peter commented, unable to keep a hint of a smile off his face.

"Smart," Neal repeated. "Yeah."

"But so are you," Peter pointed out. Purely in the interest of fairness, and all that.

"Well, _yeah,_" Neal said in a rough approximation of his _no kidding _voice. Peter couldn't help but note, wryly, that even being out of his mind didn't appreciably diminish Neal's customary self-confidence.

Peter decided to shift the conversation. "Look, why don't you forget about—about Burke for now, Neal. Just concentrate on getting some rest, okay?"

"Smart, but not smarter'n me." Neal sounded defiant—and not at all interested in a change of subject.

Peter found he couldn't help himself. "Hey, I wouldn't underestimate him."

That made Neal frown. "Whose side're you on, anyway?"

"Yours, of course," Peter said hastily. "Just . . . you know, looking out for you."

"Oh. 'Kay," Neal murmured, voice drowsy.

A long pause ensued, and Peter dared to hope that Neal had fallen asleep. He should have known better.

Because, suddenly, as Peter watched with trepidation, Neal's whole body stiffened, and he let out a groan of pain.

_Now what, _Peter wondered. "What's wrong? Neal, just relax."

"Is he—is he here?" Neal didn't say the words so much as he whispered them.

"Who?"

"_Shhh,_" Neal scolded; Peter could hear the edge in his voice. "_Burke."_

"Burke?" Peter kept his voice low, so Neal wouldn't yell at him again. "Why would you say that?

"I think . . . think I heard him. Heard h-his voice."

"That's crazy, Neal." Peter made sure to inject plenty of derision into his tone. "What would _he_ be doing here? You're being paranoid." Again he wondered who Neal thought he was talking to—Kate or Mozzie?

"You're . . . callin' _me _ paranoid?" Neal was incredulous.

Peter sighed. _Mozzie, then._ "Neal, there's nobody else here but us."

"Yeah, okay, guess you're right." Neal sighed, then said, "Thanks for stayin'."

"Where else am I gonna go?" Peter asked. The remark sounded vaguely familiar; where had he heard it before? A moment later, he realized: Neal had said those same words to him, after their first case together.

If Neal had been awake, he probably would have commented approvingly on the symmetry. As it was, though, Neal didn't answer. He seemed to lapse into sleep again. Peter selected a file from his briefcase.

* * *

For a while, Neal was quiet, but Peter should have known that it wouldn't last.

As before, Neal started moving fitfully and muttering under his breath. This time his words were easy to understand.

"Cold. 'M cold," he said plaintively.

"Neal!" Peter looked up from the case report he'd been staring at (and admittedly, making very little progress with). "Are you awake?"

He wasn't—not really. He was still delirious, but aware of being cold and definitely not happy about it.

"It's okay, Neal," Peter said as reassuringly as he could manage. "I know you're cold, but you've been running a high fever and the doctor's trying to cool you down a bit."

Neal didn't appear to have heard anything Peter said. "So c-cold. I can't—p-please . . . somebody . . ." Neal's voice rose, raw and rough. His teeth were starting to chatter.

Peter touched his temple and frowned. Still too warm.

"Come on, Neal, I know you're cold, but it's only for a little while longer—"

Neal moved, with surprising quickness, to disengage from Peter and grasped at the blanket, as if realizing that that was the cause of his discomfort. Peter tried to hold it down, but Neal, frenzied now, was using both hands and feet to get rid of the offending article, jerking wildly as he kicked it off and onto the floor. Peter reached for him and one of Neal's flying hands connected, smacking Peter soundly just below the right eye. Peter stifled a grunt of pain as he flinched away.

"Get it off! No! Let me go!" Neal's voice was hoarse and unrecognizable; you could hear the fear in it.

Peter had finally gotten a firm but gentle grasp on one of Neal's wrists. Christ, even his arm was hot to the touch. He leaned in close to whisper in his ear.

"Get a grip, Caffrey. Take it easy."

As before, Peter's voice seemed to help to settle him down. Peter hit the call button again and explained the situation. Gingerly, he touched his cheekbone, which was stinging painfully. Bringing his hand down, Peter groaned when he saw a tiny streak of blood.

_Great. Just great._

This time when Sandy returned, she had Dr. McPherson in tow. They took stock of the scene—Neal still moving about on the bed, but fading now, with Peter trying to calm him and simultaneously holding a tissue to his own face. The cooling blanket lay in a heap on the floor, along with the IV line Neal had ripped out yet again,

Dr. McPherson took charge. "What happened?"

Peter repeated what he'd told Sandy moments before.

"And he's been completely unaware?" the doctor asked.

"Yes, it's like he's dreaming," Peter answered. "He doesn't seem to understand most of what I say. But he knows he's cold."

"You don't say," the doctor said dryly, surveying the chaos in the room and then gesturing at Peter's face. "What happened?"

"He just got me with his hand—it's nothing."

Neal had calmed once again, but when the doctor tried to place the cooling blanket on him, he reacted violently. Dr. McPherson set it aside and took his temperature. "103," he said. "Not much better; he's still got a long way to go."

The doctor rubbed his face wearily. "Neal, you're not making this easy on us—or yourself, are you?" He said something to the nurse, who nodded and left immediately.

He turned to Peter. "This thrashing around is a problem. We're going to have to do something about it. We could restrain him—"

"Restrain him." Peter could hear the note of uneasiness in his own voice. "Tie him to the bed, you mean."

It was the very thing Peter had been fighting to avoid.

"I said we _could_ restrain him, but given his agitation, that would likely make matters worse. No, I think we have no choice but to sedate him."

Peter's heart sank. Neal had just woken up, and now they wanted to knock him out again? "You think that's necessary?"

The doctor sighed again. "Unfortunately, yes. You've seen his reaction to the cooling blanket, which he very much needs at the moment. Plus, we can't even keep his IV in, and dehydration would be the worst thing for him right now, with the fever he's running."

He hesitated for a moment as he looked at Peter.

"Look," he said, "a fever this high can be dangerous, especially for someone in Neal's condition. We need to deal with it—now. I never want to drug a patient, but Neal's not giving us much choice. He needs to be sleeping, letting his wounds heal, and getting fluids, and, most importantly, cooling down. Right now he's not doing any of those things. This will be best for him."

He was right, and on a strictly objective level, Peter could understand that. But somehow it didn't make him feel any better.

The nurse returned with a syringe and reconnected the IV line. Neal tried to bat at it again, but his efforts were feebler than before, as if his last outburst had drained him of whatever energy he'd had left. Peter stood by, watching as the doctor injected the contents of the syringe. A few minutes later, the sedative began to take effect and Neal's body slackened. Peter stepped back as Dr. McPherson and Sandy lifted the cooling blanket back onto Neal.

"Okay, Sandy, now let's make him a bit more comfortable."

Using both hands, the doctor lifted Neal's head and neck forward as the nurse deftly rearranged the pillows. Neal was as limp as a rag doll as the doctor carefully supported his head before laying it back on the fluffed pillows.

Stepping back, Dr. McPherson surveyed Neal, looking as if he felt satisfied. But when Peter looked at Neal, drugged into unconsciousness, he couldn't help feeling almost sickened by the sight.

The doctor must have sensed Peter's unease, because he said, "It's only a mild sedative, Agent Burke. He's going to sleep for a while—just what he needs."

Peter nodded.

"The nurses will be in to check him frequently, since he won't be able to tell us if anything's wrong. Now might be a good time for you to take a break," McPherson added, glancing at Peter.

Peter's response was instantaneous. "I think I'll stay for a while." The thought of Neal alone, in a drug-induced stupor, filled him with worry.

If he dreamed now, Neal wouldn't be able to wake up.

* * *

Reluctantly, Elizabeth ate her dinner alone. Well, not quite alone: Satchmo was her faithful companion. As the wife of an FBI agent, Elizabeth was used to it, but that didn't mean she liked it. And tonight there was the extra added worry of Neal. She thought back to their conversation and felt uneasy. Peter had been concerned and trying not to be, that was plain.

As the minutes ticked by, she regretted listening to him. She should have just gone down to the hospital. At least then he wouldn't be sitting there alone, with nothing but anxiety to keep him company.

Elizabeth had called Peter once, but there was nothing to report and he hadn't really sounded like he wanted to talk. She was itching to call him again, but Peter was never one for mindless conversation, and if anything happened, he'd call her. So she texted him instead. He was probably bored.

_Hey sweetie. Missing you, hon. _

_That makes two of us,_ he messaged back, almost instantly. Yep, she thought: he's bored.

_Three, if you count Satch, _she texted back. _Which I do. He's depressed without you._

_Then go snuggle with him._

_Already done. How's Neal?_

_Calmer. _

_That's good._

_But only because they sedated him_.

_Oh, no, _she thought. But she kept her negativity to herself, texting back,_ He needs to rest, so that should help. Is he talking to you?_

_Sometimes. But making even less sense than usual._

She turned the oven off. No point in keeping things warm any longer; it would only get dried out. She'd heat it up when Peter got home.

* * *

Hunger pangs had forced Peter to make a quick food run. If he'd known, Williams probably wouldn't be happy, but right now Peter really didn't care. God knew, it wasn't as if Neal would be going anywhere, after all.

Peter ended up grabbing a something out of a vending machine. The sandwich he chose had very little taste, but at least it quieted his growling stomach down. He took a brisk walk around the hallways to get the blood flowing a bit before returning to Neal's room and settling down with a file.

Neal was quiet at least. _Well of course he is, _Peter thought grimly, _he's sedated._

"Hey, Peter."

Peter looked up, jolted out of his contemplation of a cold case file. "Hey Jones. And Blake. Thanks for coming."

Jones reached into his pocket and pulled out an anklet. "Got your SOS."

Setting the file aside, Peter stood up to stretch, groaning as he did so. "The marshals are nothing if not thorough." He took the tracker from Jones' outstretched hand as the younger man walked to the other side of the bed and scrutinized Neal.

Blake hovered at the foot of the bed. "How's he doing?"

"Not so great," Peter admitted, "He started running a high fever today. They had to put a cooling blanket on him and give him something to calm him down."

Jones grimaced, bringing his gaze up from Neal to Peter's face. "And what happened to you?"

Peter sighed, realizing that he was already tired of answering this question. "Neal hit me." He glanced down at his consultant, wondering if he'd react badly if Peter tried to put the anklet on.

"Uh oh, assaulting a federal agent," Jones quipped, glancing at Blake and then grinning at Peter.

"Well, it was an accident. But, yeah, I'll be living off this one for a while," Peter said, managing a faint smile in return. He indicated the bed. "Could you help lift the blanket up? I don't want to move him too much."

Blake came to his side and got hold of the blanket, then flipped it up, along with the sheets, to expose Neal's left ankle. Carefully, Peter put one hand under Neal's leg, lifting it just enough to slip the anklet underneath and then snapped the tracker into place. He was relieved when Neal didn't react. Blake helped him cover Neal up again.

"We need to let the marshals know, right?" Jones asked.

"Yeah." Peter dug Williams' business card out of his pocket. "You mind calling them for me?"

"No problem," Jones said. He took out his phone and stepped into the hallway.

"So," Peter said, addressing Blake and sinking back down into a chair, "anything happening back at the office?"

"Since you left? Not much."

Peter got Blake to describe his progress on the files he was working, and then Blake fell silent, looking at Neal.

Jones returned. "Williams didn't answer, but I left a message."

"Thanks, Clinton."

Just then, Jones' phone buzzed. "That's probably him," he announced. "Excuse me."

Peter watched him go, looked over at Neal—still quiet—and turned his attention to the other agent in the room.

"You're awfully quiet, Blake."

Blake glanced up from his contemplation of Neal. "Just, uh, taking it all in, sir."

Peter nodded. Most probles learned early that, more often than not, it was better to be seen and not heard—unless you had something truly important to contribute. It was not an aspect of FBI culture that Peter particularly appreciated, though.

"So . . ." Peter said, gazing at Blake keenly, "what do you think of him?"

"I'm sorry, sir, what was that?"

Peter sighed. "Blake, I told you there's no need to 'sir' me all the time.'

"Sorry, sir," Blake said, chastened. "I mean, Agent Burke."

"I was asking about Neal," Peter clarified, inclining his head in the direction of the bed where Neal was sleeping. "What do you think of him?"

Now the young agent looked wary. "Neal? Well, he's very . . . uh, interesting. To work with."

"Interesting, huh?" Peter rolled his eyes. "That the best you can come up with?"

"I guess I just . . . uh, don't want to . . . ."

"Blake, this is not a quiz," Peter informed him, "and no one's judging you on your answer. I'm just curious." He paused. "You have an outsider's perspective on what is obviously not an ordinary situation, and I want to hear it. Your _honest _opinion. Now, I know you did your research, so you knew about Neal before you ever came to New York, right?"

Blake nodded. "Yes. And Neal is . . . well, he's not what I thought he would be."

"In what way?"

"I expected him to be . . . harder, somehow. Given the things he's done and how long he's been doing them. And I thought he'd be more fake, you know? Like nothing was real and there'd be nothing about him you could trust. But there's more . . . genuineness there than I would have thought."

"Well, it's not all real," Peter commented, smiling a little. "He's very, very skilled."

"I know," Blake agreed. "But I guess I thought it would be all fake, and it isn't. Also, he's a lot more . . . entrenched than I would have thought."

Peter frowned. "Entrenched?"

"At the FBI," Blake clarified. "The agents in White Collar think of Neal as an actual member of the team, and it's really kind of remarkable. I mean, there can't be many places where it would be harder for someone like Neal to fit in." He studied Peter. "Though now that I've been here a while, it all makes more sense."

"How so?" Peter asked. He was enjoying this.

Blake looked a little awkward. "Well, I mean, a big part of it is you, of course. You set the tone with Neal and everyone else basically . . . well, they have to follow."

He thought of his first day in the office. Jones had been showing him around and introducing him to the staff.

"_Well, I think now you've met just about everybody. Except for Agent Burke. That's his office, up there." Jones pointed. "He's running a little late this morning, but I'll introduce you once he's here." Blake nodded, trying to contain the enthusiasm that he knew marked him as a newbie to the office. He knew all about Agent Burke and looked forward to learning from him._

"_Who sits here?" Blake indicated a desk close to the one Jones had told him he'd be using. The desk was neat, but clearly being used by someone. It contained no photos and few personal items—a rubber band ball, a magnifying glass, and a small bust of Socrates that didn't seem like typical FBI office décor. It was also the only desk in the bullpen that wasn't occupied, which wasn't surprising given that the work day had started a half hour ago. Punctuality was expected at the Bureau._

"_Oh, I forgot. That's Caffrey's desk," Jones said. "Neal Caffrey is Agent Burke's . . . consultant."_

"_The criminal?" Blake said, eyes lighting up in spite of himself. "Does he work every day? Or is he off today?" Surely, he thought to himself, a felon would be expected to be at work on time?_

_There was something in Jones's gaze that gave Blake pause. "Nah, he'll be here, far as I know. He's probably coming in with Agent Burke."_

_Blake frowned. "Agent Burke drives him to work?"_

"_Some days, yeah," Jones said, shrugging like there was nothing peculiar in that. "Depends on what's going on. Neal doesn't have a car."_

_Neither do I, yet, Blake couldn't help thinking. But he doubted Agent Burke would be driving _him_ to work any time soon. "Oh, I get it," he said, instead, catching on. "Caffrey has to be . . . supervised when he's not at home or at work?"_

_Jones gave him an odd glance. "Not quite. So . . . you know something about Caffrey already, huh?"_

_Of course Blake knew about Neal Caffrey. In fact, he was a little insulted that Jones would think he hadn't done his homework before coming here. "Sure. Convicted bond forger, suspected of multiple other offenses. Agent Burke chased him for four years and put him away for four. Caffrey escaped with a few months left and Agent Burke caught him again, after which Caffrey was sentenced to four more years. He's now serving that time out here as a consultant."_

"_Well, you've got all the numbers down," Jones said wryly. "Though you're gonna see there's more to Caffrey than that. A lot more."_

_Something in his tone made Blake uneasy. "Is there something I should know?" he asked. He was going to be sitting right next to Caffrey. Was he going to have to lock his desk when he wasn't around, or . . . .?_

"_There's a lot to know," Jones informed him; now he was grinning. "But why should I ruin it all for you?" His face turned serious. "Look, you're new and you seem like a good kid. So I'm gonna give you the three things to know about dealing with Caffrey. For starters, anyway. To put it in Academy terms, let's call it Neal Caffrey101."_

_Blake nodded eagerly._

"_I know what it's like to come out of Quantico—you're finally an agent and you feel like you can do anything. Just keep in mind that Caffrey has none of the formal training that you do, but he's gonna be twice as smart. Probably." Blake raised his eyebrows and Jones held up a hand._

"_And don't take that personally, because if Hughes and Burke picked you, that means you're damn good. It's just that Caffrey's in a league of his own a lot of the time."_

"_I've heard that he's very intelligent," Blake offered. "He must be, to have stayed ahead of Agent Burke that long."_

"_Yeah, plus he's got street smarts, which you can't teach," Jones explained. "Generally, Neal's the smartest guy in the room. Unless Agent Burke's there and then—well, they kinda . . . alternate." Jones hesitated. "You'll see what I mean."_

_Intrigued, Blake considered it. He was looking forward to that._

"_Second—and this is because Caffrey's as smart as he is—you have to take what he says with a giant shaker of salt. He cons people without even thinking, and you need to be aware of that. Stay on your toes."_

"_So you don't trust him."_

"_Oh, it's not as simple as all that," Jones said. "I mean, he's not gonna lift the cash from your wallet when you're not looking. Or—he might, but only to teach you a lesson and he'll give it back." Jones grinned and Blake did the same._

"_But Caffrey does have his own thing going on sometimes, and you won't know what it is. So you gotta . . . kind of keep an eye on that."_

"_I understand," Blake said, although he wasn't quite sure that he did. He was secretly looking forward to seeing that aspect of Caffrey in action, too (though hopefully not at his own expense). "So what's the third thing?"_

_Jones' gaze turned hard. "I know you're curious—and probably still getting used to the idea of working side-by-side with a criminal. But don't take too long. Because Caffrey's not some animal at the zoo, and there's no faster way to get on Peter's—on Agent Burke's shit list than to take some kind of unwarranted attitude toward Caffrey."_

"_He . . . respects him," Blake said, slowly. "You all do. Is that right?"_

"_He's proven himself," Jones replied with an approving nod. "And again, that doesn't mean you let him push you around—or believe everything he says. But he's earned himself some cred around here."_

_Blake gave him a shrewd look. "With everybody?"_

_Jones chuckled. "You figured that out, huh? The people who had . . . an issue with Caffrey being here are—well, they aren't around anymore. Or they're smart enough to keep their opinions to themselves." He shrugged. "Though you still get a fair amount of resistance from agents in other divisions who're just going by the rap sheet. Not that Caffrey isn't capable of handling himself. You'll see, as time goes on."_

_Jones was exactly right. As time went on, Blake had seen first-hand how smart Caffrey was, about all kinds of things. How'd he'd gained acceptance in the office. How he could appear to have one motive, but have some other hidden purpose. How he subtly manipulated people, including Agent Burke—although Agent Burke did it right back._

"Neal proved that he belongs," Agent Burke said, bringing Blake out of his reverie. "It made it easier for people to accept him. They see him for what he can do for us now, instead of what he did in the past."

Blake nodded. "As an agent—and I come from a pretty white-bread background, which also contributes—you tend to think of criminals as _them. _There's _us _and then there's _them _and—" he held out his hands, far apart—"and there's a big separation. You don't question it."

He paused. "Then you see someone like Neal up close and you see how simplistic that perspective really is."

Peter eyed him thoughtfully. "The Academy's good for a lot of things, but it's a pretty black and white world in there. Then you get out into the real one, and pretty soon, you start learning about all the shades of gray. Or, at least," he added, glancing over at Neal with a grin that could almost be described as rueful, "I did."

Blake's gaze also traveled over to Neal, lying motionless on the bed. "You know, Agent Burke, Neal's not that much older than me."

"Oh, he looks younger than he is." Peter leaned back in his chair. "Neal's got a few years on you."

"A few years, sure, but not that many. And in some ways," Blake said, with an air of reflection, "he reminds me a lot of the guys I grew up with. Well, except he's smarter than any of them. And dresses way better . . . ."

"But," Peter said, "he's not like them. You know that, right?"

"I know," Blake admitted. "He's not. But he could have been. Couldn't he?"

He looked at Peter, a troubled expression on his face. He was right, of course, but Peter didn't answer right away.

After a long pause, Blake said, "Neal's so smart and sometimes it seems like he can do . . . pretty much anything."

Peter didn't argue with that insight.

"And yet . . . he ended up where he did," Blake said, almost sadly. "Do you—do you know why?"

The longer this conversation went, the more impressed Peter was with the young agent's perspicacity—in particular, how quickly he'd gotten to the crux of the mystery that was Neal Caffrey.

"I've asked myself the same question," Peter admitted. "And I don't have a good answer. Neal's background—anything before he turned 18—is an unknown. And it's not for a lack of trying on my part."

Blake's gaze sharpened. "Nothing. That seems . . . unusual."

"It is. Very. Though, it's Neal, so . . . . " Peter threw up a hand in a vague _who knows _gesture. "With him, unusual is par for the course."

"Do you think that Neal Caffrey is an alias?"

Peter gave him an approving look. "It's certainly possible. Or . . . whatever name he was using before is."

"You've never asked him?"

"Not directly. But I doubt he'd tell me even if I did." It was the kind of question that could put Neal in the position of having to tell a lie. The kind of question Peter usually tried not to ask (even though Neal was plenty adept at avoidance techniques). Peter didn't say any of that to Blake, though.

"Like you," Peter said instead, "I can't help but think that someone as bright as Neal should have had plenty of opportunities to succeed in life without committing crimes. Because despite everything Neal's done, he . . . he's not a bad person. He's not cruel, or violent. In fact, underneath that slick façade there are some surprisingly selfless instincts. No, something helped to put him on the path he's on."

He hesitated, staring out into space for a few seconds before resuming.

"You can draw your own conclusions about what that might have been, but I think it's safe to assume that Neal didn't have the kind of childhood I had—or you probably had. The fact that he never talks about probably tells you most of what you need to know."

Blake nodded, looking grim. "So there's still a lot you don't know about him."

"With Neal, there's always some uncharted territory out there," Peter said, letting out a long sigh. "I try to think of it as part of the fun. Also, I signed up for it, so I have no cause to complain."

That made Blake chuckle. "So that's how this all came about?"

Peter studied him, a little glint in his eye. "All what?"

"You and Neal," Blake said simply. "If you don't mind my asking: why'd you do it?"

"Ah," Peter said, leaning back in the chair, mouth twisting into a small smile. "Another key question. You don't go in for the easy ones, do you, Blake?"

"No, sir," Blake answered. "After all . . . it's the only question that matters, really. Isn't it?"

Peter's estimation of Blake just kept rising. "It's pretty important, yeah."

"So," Blake said, leaning forwardly eagerly, eyes locked onto Peter's. "You chase Neal for years. You study him, you become the expert on him, you learn to think like him."

He paused and waited for a nod of semi-acknowledgment from Peter before resuming. "Then, you finally catch Neal and lock him up. When he escapes, you catch him again and lock him up again. Then . . . you turn around and let him out again. Why?"

"Well, for starters," Peter said, "he asked me."

Blake stared at him in surprise. "He did?"

"Yep."

"Wow," Blake said, shaking his head. "I guess I . . . I figured it must have been your idea."

Peter laughed. "I like to think I can keep up with Neal, but he's still more than capable of coming up with schemes that wouldn't occur to me in a million years. Like, _hey, why don't you let me out of prison, slap a tracking anklet on me—the new ones have never been skipped on—and I'll help you with your cases?_"

"You're right," Blake admitted. "It doesn't sound like something an FBI agent would come up with. But once Neal suggested it . . . ."

"Oh, I rejected it immediately." Peter shook his head. "Didn't even have to think about it."

Again, Blake was surprised. "What changed your mind?"

"Well, the more I thought about it," Peter said, "the more I appreciated that he'd even suggest such a thing. I mean, he's not just a convicted felon—he's a prison escapee, for God's sake. And the first thing he does is ask the FBI agent who caught him to let him out again, immediately. You have to admire the sheer chutzpah."

In truth, Blake thought that most FBI agents would have been more appalled than admiring, but Agent Burke wasn't most FBI agents. "Despite everything he's done . . . you like him, don't you? Or maybe it would be better to say you . . . appreciate him."

Peter didn't confirm that, but his smile said it all. "Anyway, I started to research those anklets he was talking about. I tried to imagine how such an arrangement could possibly work. I thought about the fact that, if not for a misguided attempt to find his girlfriend, Neal would have been out of prison already; he'd basically been a model inmate up to that point. And," Peter added, "I thought about how . . . gifted Neal is."

"Sure," Blake said. "It's easy to see how useful he could be."

"Absolutely," Peter agreed. "_If _I could get him focused on the work, that is. So, I, uh, talked it over with . . . some people I trust. Starting with my wife," Peter said, because it was only fair to give Elizabeth her due. "Then, the more I thought about it . . . the more sense it made. There was a risk, yes, but potentially a very high reward."

"And you haven't regretted it."

"No, I haven't," Peter answered. "There've been some . . . bumps in the road, no doubt about it, but Neal's done a lot of good things since he started working with us."

"Well, I haven't been here long," Blake said, "but I've seen it firsthand."

"So . . . do you like working in White Collar?" Peter asked.

"I do. I was really hoping I'd get to come here."

Peter smiled. "That's good to hear. Oh, and by the way . . . ."

"Yes?"

"I know you're the new guy," Peter advised, "but keep in mind that if they start sticking their noses into your private life, you're fully entitled to tell them it's none of their business."

Blake grinned widely. "Yes, sir."

Just then, Jones returned. "Everything's set with the Marshals. Williams said to tell you that Neal can't leave this floor, though."

"Speak of the devil," Peter muttered to Blake under his breath.

"What's that?" Jones inquired.

"Oh, nothing," Peter said, exchanging a knowing glance with Blake. "Thanks for taking care of the radius, Jones."

* * *

They talked, then, and were deep into a discussion of current cases, when there was a stirring on the bed. For a moment, all three of them were startled. But when Peter swung his gaze over to Neal, he could see those familiar blue eyes starting to flutter. He got up and leaned in closer.

"Neal? Come on, wake up, Neal."

It took a few seconds of Peter calling his name, but finally Neal's eyes opened and he blinked up at Peter wearily. As worn and tired as Neal looked, Peter couldn't help smiling at the sight.

"Hey." Peter exclaimed. He reached down and laid the back of his hand lightly against Neal's forehead.

Cooler. Cooler, thank God. Peter expelled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

_TBC . . . ._

_A/N—Was wavering on having the marshals reappear in this chapter, but enough reviewers mentioned it that I ended up putting it in. Never doubt the power of feedback! ;-) Thanks to everyone who has left a comment, especially the many guest reviewers who, unfortunately, I can't thank personally. If I have missed replying to a review, please know I'm very grateful. It means so much to know that you are enjoying the story._

_I swear, these chapters keep growing, like . . . tumors. Okay, not the most elegant of metaphors, but apt. I had to divide this chapter, too, so the next one picks up right where this left off and will be posted in the next few days._


	17. The Holes You Might Fall Through

**Chapter 17**

**The Holes You Might Fall Through**

"_Don't underestimate the power of friendship. Those bonds are tight stitches that close up the holes you might otherwise fall through."  
_― Richelle E. Goodrich

* * *

He could hear background noise, muffled and indistinct. Eventually the sound got a little clearer and he understood that the sound was a voice, calling his name. Repeatedly.

_Peter's voice,_ he realized.

_Well, really, who else would it be?_

Coming back to himself was like coming up from being underwater. He had to fight against something thick and cold and heavy, holding him down, hurting him. The mere act of opening his eyes felt like the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he kept at it. Because he knew Peter and Peter wouldn't stop until Neal answered him.

Slowly, Peter's face swam into focus, right in front of him. And Peter was smiling.

"Hey," he said, sounding strangely excited, and then he was actually reaching out and putting a hand on Neal's forehead—feather-light and careful, not like Peter at all. Why, Neal wondered dimly, was it such a big deal that he was waking up? And why was Peter sitting around watching him sleep, anyway? That seemed kind of . . . creepy. Peter didn't do that. True, he liked to know what Neal was up to, more often than not, but watching him sleep seemed a little over the top. And Peter had better things to do. Didn't he?

So many questions running through his mind, questions without answers, and now Peter added one of his own. "So how are you feeling?"

Oh, that was why Peter was watching him sleep. He'd been sick. Right. He did feel sick. And in pain. And cold, he realized, unable to stop a small shiver.

"I—" Neal stopped, swallowing painfully. He barely recognized the sound of his own voice—it was no more than a hoarse whisper. Talking was an effort, not helped by how his teeth had begun to chatter. "Th-thirsty."

Talking hurt, swallowing hurt; he was slowly realizing that, right now, just about everything hurt.

Peter hastily poured from the pitcher on the bedside table. Neal, with some difficulty, freed a hand from the blanket still covering him and took the cup. His hand shook a little and water sloshed from the cup as he struggled to push himself up on an elbow.

"Hey, Neal, just lie back and take it easy," a different, yet familiar voice interjected. "I'll raise the bed up for you, okay?"

It was Jones. Neal blinked at him. When had Jones gotten there? And someone else, too, he realized. Blake. All three of them were watching him sleep? This was just getting stranger and stranger.

As Jones pushed the button and the bed began to incline, the motion made Neal's stomach jump unpleasantly. Trying to ignore the sensation, he quickly downed the whole cup of water and held it out for more. His throat still felt parched, as if he'd had nothing to drink at all.

Peter repeated his question. Which was good, because Neal had completely forgotten what it was.

He grimaced at the pounding ache behind each temple, at the throbbing pain in his stomach that was becoming more noticeable with each breath. "I—I've felt better." How unreal this all felt. It was as if the room—or maybe just the bed—were moving. Surely they weren't?

"What's wrong?" Peter asked worriedly, noting Neal's expression and the unfocused quality of his gaze. Neal was still holding the refilled cup of water, but, contrary to his eagerness of a moment ago, had made no move to drink it.

"Headache. Cold. Dizzy," he said succinctly. Short sentences were better, he decided. Less effort. Keeping his eyes open was also way too much work—he closed them and sighed in relief at the darkness. Why did the light hurt so much?

And why did he feel so cold one second, hot the next? He heard Peter's voice saying his name and sounding anxious, but it sounded faint again, as if it were coming from far away. Which was strange, because he was pretty sure Peter had been _right there_. Hadn't he? Neal couldn't think about that now though, not when he could feel cold sweat beading on his forehead and a sudden unwelcome feeling rising unbidden in his throat. With all his strength, he tried to fight it, to swallow it down. Immediately he regretted drinking that water so quickly—

Waves of nausea overcame him and he was violently sick. The pain in his stomach blossomed into sheer agony, white-hot and crushing, and he heard himself cry out even as he was gagging Then Peter was grabbing him and trying to help turn his head to the side, which at first Neal didn't understand, but belatedly it came to him: Peter was probably worried he'd choke. Nothing came up but liquid, though, which made sense – he hadn't eaten solid food in—how long? He didn't remember, but he was pretty sure it had been a while.

The nausea had receded, but he still felt like he was fighting for air as Peter helped lay him gently back on the pillows. Pain was washing over him in waves, threatening to overwhelm him. Peter's touch was unusually delicate, like he thought Neal might break, and who knew, maybe Peter was right. Maybe he was just seconds away from breaking in half, if the agony in his abdomen was any indication. Why did it hurt so much? Neal closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. Deep breaths hurt like hell and he couldn't afford that right now. He was still shivering, too, which also hurt, but there wasn't much he could do about that at the moment.

He realized he'd spilled the cup of water on the sheets and himself. Someone—not Peter, because Peter was on his other side—was fiddling with the bed. Neal slitted open his eyes to see Blake fussing about, trying to blot the whole mess on the sheets with what looked like towels.

"He's cold," he heard Peter say quickly. "I think we should get the blanket—"

Neal interrupted. "What—what happened?" he mumbled.

Peter glanced up to look at Jones, only then realizing that the other agent was nowhere in sight. He must have gone for the nurse.

"You're in the hospital, Neal. You got shot and then today you came out of the ICU, but you started running a fever, remember?"

Neal was silent for a long moment. Peter couldn't tell if he was thinking or had zoned out again.

"Do you remember?" Peter pressed, wanting to get a sense of how coherent he was.

Neal thought, then nodded—uncertainly the first time, then, more definitively; Peter saw the flash of understanding cross his face. "Oh, right, I think I—"

He'd been starting to process things, to remember that, yes, he'd been shot, and, yes, he was in the hospital. He wanted to tell Peter that he knew, since Peter was worried and he didn't like it when Peter worried about him. But too late, he realized that moving his head had been a mistake.

His eyes flew open wide, and Peter was unprepared for the pleading, drowning gaze that met his own as sickness overtook Neal again. Again he tried to support Neal as he retched. Nothing at all came up this time and when the heaving stopped after what seemed like an eternity, he collapsed back onto the bed, gasping as if he'd just run a race.

"God," he moaned, hating how weak he sounded but unable to help it. His whole body was trembling uncontrollably. "Hurts. Why do I feel so sick? This is—"

He had started to dry-heave again when Jones returned with the doctor and nurse.

"He's awake," Peter said hurriedly, wanting to get the reporting of symptoms over with, so McPherson could help Neal. "He says he feels dizzy and cold. And he's been sick three times. Neal, the doctor's here, okay?"

The doctor's expression was concerned as he began a quick, efficient examination. "Neal, I'm going to check your temperature, all right?" Neal's spasming stopped and he let out a groan. McPherson pulled out a thermometer and inserted it into Neal's ear, causing him to start. "How are you feeling?

"So s—sick," Neal murmured, more to himself than the doctor. He seemed dazed.

"So it seems. But you've cooled down a lot and that is a very good thing," the doctor said. "Temp's down to 100," he said to his audience, pleased.

"Can you open your eyes for me?" Then, in a sharper voice, "_Neal_."

The blue eyes opened slowly, as if doing so had taken an enormous effort. None of the usual brightness was visible. The doctor shone a light in them, apologizing and keeping Neal from turning his head away as he checked the pupils. Peter realized that Neal was so weak it was all too easy for the doctor to hold his head in place as he grunted his displeasure at the bright light.

"Okay, you can close your eyes now. Neal, I'm Dr. McPherson. Do you remember me?"

Letting his eyes fall shut, Neal started to nod, then stopped abruptly.

"Don't open your eyes or move your head if it bothers you. You're doing much better, though it probably doesn't seem like it at the moment," Dr. McPherson said as the nurse left the room. "I'd like you to answer a few questions for me, okay? Do you feel hot?"

"C-cold."

"Good, we'll take the cooling blanket off. We had to keep that on you until we got your fever down. Do you still feel as if you might be sick?"

"Yes," Neal said with feeling. It was the clearest thing he'd said yet.

"It seems you're having a bad reaction to the sedative I gave you. I'm going to make a note in your record; no more of that for you. We'll administer an anti-emetic to calm your stomach down—the nurse will be back with it in a minute. What else are you feeling?"

He seemed to be waiting for his patient to respond. Neal didn't answer, just lay there with his eyes shut tightly, apparently being careful not to move.

"Neal? What else?" prompted the doctor.

Finally Neal ventured, in a small voice, "Everything's . . . I think it's moving."

The doctor nodded, like he'd expected that. "Actually, you're experiencing dizziness, Neal. That's due to the fever—you still have a slightly elevated temp. It will fade as your temperature returns to normal."

"It's not moving?" Neal asked doubtfully; he didn't seem to have heard anything after the first word.

"No. And it will get better, I promise. For now, though, it's best if you don't move around any more than you need to. You can keep your eyes closed if that helps." He paused a moment and then queried again, patiently, "Neal? Any other symptoms?"

Neal sighed. "Mmm. Headache . . . tired."

"Your headache is another side effect of the fever—I can give you something for that, at least. As for being tired, well, that's to be expected. You need rest, Neal, and plenty of it. And nothing by mouth yet, either."

When Neal made no sign that he'd heard, the doctor turned to face Peter. "Until we're sure the nausea's under control, he shouldn't eat or drink anything, even water. Sandy'll bring some ice chips to moisten his mouth and throat, but anything hitting his stomach right now is likely to cause a repeat of the vomiting we just saw."

The nurse returned, with two aides, and he murmured something to them. She nodded and he returned his gaze to the three agents. "I need to recheck the surgical sites, make sure he hasn't torn anything and that the drain is still in place. I'm also going to give him something for the nausea, and since he can't swallow it, the fastest way to administer it is going to be a mite uncomfortable for him. If you could step outside for a few minutes, these folks are going to change the bed and clean Neal up a bit. We'll let you know when we're done. Then, he needs to sleep. The more the better."

The three of them exited and waited in the hall, checking their phones and chatting quietly.

After a quick check of his watch, Blake cleared his throat. "Agent Burke, I think—I have to get going."

"Got a date?" Jones inquired, smiling wickedly.

"You know, Jones, it's really nice that you take such an interest in your coworker's life," Blake said, returning the smile and very deliberately not answering the question.

"Sure, Blake, thanks for coming." Peter said, enjoying Blake's response and shooting a triumphant look at Jones. "And, by the way, I enjoyed our little talk."

"Uh, me too. Tell Neal I hope he feels better."

They watched Blake walk away, and then Jones glanced at Peter. "What was your little talk about?"

"Mostly, we talked about all things Neal," Peter explained. "And you know, our probie's got a damn good head on his shoulders."

"Told you he did," Jones shot back equably. "Told you from day one."

Peter nodded. "You did."

Not long after, the doctor came to speak with them. "Neal's incisions look fine—there's no damage there. There's also no sign of infection, but the blood work will be back soon, and we'll know for sure. We're going to wait until tomorrow to try him on liquids. He's resting now. They're just getting him situated and then you can see him. He's exhausted—starting to drift off. But he's getting better—really."

Maybe ten minutes later, Sandy and the aides came out and Peter and Jones reentered the room. They stood there, looking silently down at Neal.

Neal lay flat once again, the newly sheeted bed having been lowered and the cooling blanket removed. The IV had been replaced as well. Peter was struck by how small he seemed, lying motionless and breathing deeply, his shadowed eyes closed. He wore a fresh hospital gown and smelled clean. His face was drawn with fatigue and still far too pale, only a few shades off the stark white sheets, but it no longer glistened with sweat.

He was getting better, the doctor had said. And he looked better—well, a _little_ better. Peter felt relief swell up inside him. He picked up Neal's right hand, which lay on the sheet, and carefully placing it under the covers. A warm blanket had replaced the cooling one, but Neal was still too cold to the touch; at least, Peter thought so.

He had expected Neal's eyes to open and was surprised when instead his lips curved into a smile.

"Peter." The voice was low and raspy.

Peter laughed. "Who else."

Neal's smile broadened; his eyes remained shut. " 'n Jones, too—am I right?"

"Right here," Jones piped up. "Where else would we be?"

"Oh, I dunno. Home, maybe?"

"Home? With all the excitement here? Hardly," Peter joked.

Neal managed a shaky laugh. "Yeah, watching me lie in bed and then be sick all over myself. You guys must be hurting for excitement."

They all chuckled, and Neal shifted restlessly on the bed. Finally he opened his eyes and squinted at them. His gaze was cloudier than Peter was used to, but lucid.

"You've been out of it for the past few hours. There were a few . . . interesting moments," Peter remarked. "Do you remember any of it?"

Watching Neal carefully, Peter noted the sudden alarm in his gaze as he looked up at them. Was he remembering his dreams about Kate? About Peter chasing him?

"Don' remember you cutting yourself," Neal said sharply, for a moment sounding more like himself. "What happened?"

Peter relaxed. He glanced over at Jones, the two of them exchanging a mischievous smile.

"Another time," Peter said, with an airy wave of his hand.

"I can see there's a story there, for sure," Neal said tiredly. His voice was getting drowsier. "When I'm more awake. Don't forget to tell me."

He was a little mystified at the laughs this remark produced.

"Won't be a problem, Neal," Jones said with a smirk. Then, becoming serious again, he asked, "_Do_ you remember much?"

"From today? Not much. Which is a good thing, I guess. The parts I do remember I'd just as soon forget."

"Just as well," Jones agreed. "Well, Neal, it's good to see you awake. Peter probably won't admit it, but things are way too quiet without you."

"Glad someone misses me," Neal said, smiling affectionately while Peter laughed.

"I'm gonna run along. Diana couldn't be here, but she texted me to be sure and tell you to stay out of trouble."

"Well, okay. I guess, for her, I'll try," Neal said. "But just for her."

"You'll try for her?" Peter asked, his voice indignant. "What about for me?"

"She's scarier," Neal said, absolute conviction in his voice, and all three of them laughed.

Jones walked out and Neal sighed, closing his eyes again. "So how bad was it?" His tone was resigned.

"Well, you had the highest fever I've ever seen, for starters," Peter said.

"How high?"

"104.3."

"Wow. That really is up there," Neal said, pondering.

Peter let out a groan. "You almost sound proud."

"What c'n I say?" Neal attempted a modest shrug. "I'm special."

Rolling his eyes at that bit of typical Neal braggadocio, Peter noted, "You kept pulling out your IV, too. You were pretty out of it."

"Huh." Neal paused. "Did I, um, by chance, say something embarrassing? It wouldn't be the first time . . . ."

Peter mulled that one over for a few seconds, letting a little smile steal across his face. "I would say . . . not embarrassing. More like . . . enlightening."

Neal's eyes opened, his expression quickly transformed from sheepish to wary. "_Enlightening_. Enlightening as in . . . incriminating?"

"Enlightening as in, I learned some things about you. I got the mini-tour of Neal Caffrey's subconscious, I guess."

"I see." Neal relaxed, but only marginally. "And you learned . . . ."

"Well, let's see . . . at one point, you were very freaked out that someone was going to let go and fall off a roof or something. Was that Kate or Alex?"

"Oh, that was—" Neal started to answer and stopped abruptly. "Well, you know, it could have been anyone really, I—"

"Right, right," Peter said, not really caring, just enjoying the banter—and the fact that he could once more get a rise out of Neal, of course. "I also learned that you were also a lot more worried about me catching you than you ever let on." Peter could hear the satisfaction in his own voice.

"Oh, really?"

"Sure. At one point, you went off about me chasing you. You thought I was about to jump out and grab you._" _

"Seriously? How bizarre." Neal sounded more interested.

"You kept saying, _is he here? Is Peter here? _You were panicked."

Neal snorted, closing his eyes again. "That's how you know I was delirious: I don't panic."

Peter couldn't argue with that. "Although, to be accurate," he amended, remembering, "what you actually said was, _is Burke here?"_

"Least that makes sense," Neal pointed out. "When you were chasing me, we weren't on a first name basis, if you recall."

"Yeah, that came later."

Neal smiled and blinked his eyes open to see Peter smiling too. They locked eyes for a few long seconds and neither one spoke.

The moment was broken when Neal shifted in the bed, letting out a little moan of pain as he moved his lower half, trying to get comfortable. "Man, you lay this long and your butt starts to fall asleep—ow." He stopped abruptly, hissing something under his breath that sounded a lot like a curse.

"You okay?"

"Fantastic," Neal said through gritted teeth, face twisted into a rictus of pain. He sucked in a harsh breath. "Let's talk about something else. Like . . . how 'bout . . . I—I just noticed that my . . . little friend is back." Neal jiggled his ankle under the sheets. "Don't think . . . it wasn't there before, was it?"

"No, it wasn't." Peter heard the little edge in his voice. "But that was before one of our friendly neighborhood marshal showed up determined to shackle you to the bed."

"Oh." Neal swallowed and winced; Peter couldn't tell if it was from pain or the thought of being restrained. Maybe both. "I didn't know. That's . . . " he paused to lick his lips. "I—I'm glad you didn't let that happen, Peter."

"I told you I wouldn't," Peter reminded him, but he wondered if Neal even remembered that. Given what he'd been through today, probably not. "I've already come close to one _incident _with them over this, anyway."

That got Neal's attention. "Incident?" He looked interested—and also a bit wary.

"They came when we—when you were in surgery." Peter hesitated. "Let's just say their presence was . . . not welcome."

"I'll bet," Neal said, and then he froze, looking at Peter with alarm. "Wait. You didn't punch one of them, did you?"

Peter answered his look with a pretend glare. "Where does this fixation with me clocking people come from?"

Neal just cocked his head and raised his eyebrows at Peter, his expression far too insouciant.

"One time," Peter told him sternly. "It was one time. With extreme provocation. And in case you've forgotten, the reason I hit Fowler was—"

"Yeah, yeah, was pretty much my fault, I know," Neal interjected, sighing. "So I shouldn't be harassing you about it."

Neal had to be truly exhausted, because he actually sounded regretful—in other words, not like himself at all.

"I was going to say _partially _your fault," Peter said. "Can't dump all the blame for that on you."

Neal smiled at that.

"I will admit to imagining, there in the waiting room, for maybe point-five seconds, how good it would have felt to do it," Peter continued. "Which, by the way, I will categorically deny that if you ever bring it up again. Fortunately Hughes was there to act as a buffer. He got things calmed down."

"Including you." Neal had a little gleam in his eye.

"Including me," Peter admitted. "And your anklet is back on because you're awake now. And you _are_ still in custody and . . . I couldn't put them off any longer."

Neal nodded. "I get it. I wasn't complaining. Just . . . commenting."

"Oh, sure."

"No, I mean it," Neal insisted. "This new one's really a lot less noticeable. But I'd even gotten used to the older model, in fact, I almost—"

Peter's gaze sharpened when Neal stopped in mid-sentence. "Almost what?"

Neal glanced away, a telltale sign that he was uncomfortable, and now Peter realized he wanted very much to know why. "I was going to say—well, it sounds ridiculous . . ." again his voice trailed off and Peter had to prompt him.

"What sounds ridiculous?"

"You'll laugh."

"I promise I won't. Or, at least," Peter added, in the interest of honesty, "I promise I'll try really hard not to."

Neal gave him a wry look that said he'd expected more than mere _trying_, but he continued anyway. "After Kate—" he halted and then started again. "When I was . . . back in, after a day or so, it hit me that I didn't have it on. The anklet, I mean. With everything else going on at the time, I was kind of . . . well, suffice to say I sort of forgot that I didn't have it."

Given what he'd been through, it was hardly surprising. Peter could imagine. Well, he could, but he really, really didn't want to.

Clearing his throat, Neal continued. "When I remembered it was gone, I thought, _well, that'll be one good thing about being back in prison, at least. _That I wouldn't have to wear it. Because—and I know you don't want to hear this, Peter—but it does chafe sometimes and it always kind of . . . itches."

Peter had a standard refrain anytime Neal complained about the tracker _(you brought this on yourself, a little irritation on your ankle is a small price to pay, two miles is a lot better than six-by-eight, et cetera, et cetera). _Though, in truth, Neal really didn't carp about it all that much. Probably because he knew full well that no matter how annoying it was, the anklet beat prison, any day.

Neal hadn't resumed, and Peter realized that Neal was watching him, probably waiting for the usual lecture. He made sure to give his consultant an encouraging nod instead.

"Okay, so it chafes and it itches," he said, noting the quick flash of surprise in Neal's eyes. "You were saying?"

"Never mind."

"Oh, no," Peter told him, shaking his head vigorously. "You can't leave that one hanging. Come on. What were you going to say?"

"Just that . . ." Neal looked around the room, his manner oddly diffident. "It felt . . . sort of . . . strange not having it on."

Peter stared at him. "Strange in a good way, or in a bad way?"

Neal shrugged, not answering, and Peter knew there was a frontier here that Neal couldn't cross—but he asked anyway. "Wait a minute. Are you telling me you actually . . . missed the tracking anklet?"

"No, I am not," Neal retorted. "And you promised you wouldn't laugh."

"Who's laughing?" Peter asked, very solemn. "I'm just trying to . . . absorb this."

Neal sounded defensive—and sorry he'd ever brought this up. "I guess I've just . . . gotten used to it. That's all I meant. Can't help it, I guess."

'Huh," Peter said, making sure to temper his astonishment so Neal wouldn't get annoyed. He could hear the words ringing out in his head. _You've co-opted him. Enticed him. Suborned him._ "Say, can I give you one piece of advice?"

"Oh, you _know _how much I treasure your advice, Peter," Neal said, in his usual faux-earnest, smart-aleck tone. (The one that Peter had secretly been missing.)

"Right." Peter gave him a wry look. "Well, I, uh, wouldn't mention that to Mozzie if I were you."

Now Neal looked downright apprehensive. "Oh, God. I would never."

"I always knew you were smart," Peter said, and answered Neal's grin with one of his own. Now you need to rest," he added, in a tone that would brook no discussion.

"Yes, Mom," Neal said, a faint note of cheekiness in his voice. He swallowed and then frowned. "My mouth is so dry."

Peter responded instantly. "You're allowed ice chips." He scooped up a heaping spoonful from the Styrofoam cup Sandy had left on the nightstand and with an awkward motion, moved the plastic spoon in toward Neal's mouth. He had an out-of-nowhere recollection of watching _his_ mom feed his sister's little one—_open up,_ _here comes the airplane!_—and wondered idly how Neal would react if Peter tried the airplane bit on him.

Really, there was no need to wonder. Neal wasn't appreciating Peter's attempt to help—even minus the airplane reference. He had a _you must be kidding _look on his face as he warily eyed the spoon Peter held.

And he had _not _opened up.

"You do know," Neal remarked, "if you hand that to me, I'm, uh, capable of doing that myself."

"Ah, you're all tucked in," Peter said casually (and after all he should know, since he'd helped do it). "Happy to help. Hey, it's not every day I'm gonna offer to feed you ice chips."

"I hope not." Neal rolled his eyes, and Peter smiled inwardly at the tell-tale signs of Neal humoring him. "All right, fine, but how about, you know, not choking me? And I'm not really supposed to swallow anything, they said." He cast a significant glance down at the spoon.

"Oh," Peter said, understanding. "Right." Now that he looked at the spoon, it _was_ kind of a lot. In fact, the ice was falling off the edges. He dumped most of the ice chips back in the cup and tried again, with a smaller serving this time.

Neal still looked like this was possibly the most ridiculous thing he had ever seen, but he didn't object, letting Peter spoon the bits of ice into his mouth.

"Mmm. Thanks." Neal emitted a little sigh of pleasure, probably in spite of himself, as the cool wetness hit his mouth and throat.

"Want more?"

"Yeah, a little more would be good."

Peter repeated the maneuver and Neal nodded. " 'S enough for now, thanks, Peter. Though I am a little disappointed in you, though."

"With what?" Peter asked, puzzled.

"You didn't say, _here comes the airplane." _Neal told him. "Cause I know you were dying to." A tiny grin had crept across his face.

"Aw, did you miss that?" Peter teased, amused at Neal's ever-present ability to read his mind. "Your mom used to say that, huh?"

Something in Neal's expression changed, the smile fading a bit. It was so minute that Peter just barely caught it, but he instantly regretted his offhand mention of Neal's mother. As he'd told Blake, he had precious little hard evidence about Neal's past, but Peter's instincts told him enough to make some pretty educated—not to mention depressing—guesses. His consultant didn't ever talk about his childhood, the way people normally did when they had happy memories of those times. That, and many other things, had led Peter to form his own grim suspicions about Neal's formative years, about what his family had been like. If he'd even _had_ a family; Neal certainly never spoke of them, and Peter's numerous searches hadn't turned up any relatives.

Neal recovered quickly, though, and in true Neal fashion, deflected the question with an answer-that wasn't-really-an-answer. "Didn't everybody's mom say that?"

"I guess you're right," Peter agreed. Neal flashed him a grin that Peter knew was a little too bright to be real, and Peter felt an automatic twinge of pity, which had to be carefully hidden because Neal would hate the very thought of it. Then, just like that, the awkward moment was over.

"I thought you were going to go to sleep," Peter said, breaking the small silence.

"Sounds like a great idea," Neal agreed. "As soon as you tell me . . . whatever you're not, y'know, telling me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"C'mon, sure you do." Neal sighed. "Something's bothering you; I can tell."

When Peter didn't answer, Neal prodded gently. "How 'bout we start with how you got that cut on your face. You did promise to tell me."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Not important."

"Of course it is. Hmm, let's see." Neal might be tired, but he was still persistent. Peter could tell he was enjoying himself, and he didn't have the heart to put a stop to it. "Shaving mishap?"

"Near my eye?"

"See, that's the thing; I'm so confused I can't figure it out on my own," Neal said in a deliberately sad voice. "You'll have to help me."

"Oh, I think you can probably figure it out," Peter told him.

Neal's mind was working at considerably less than top speed, but it didn't take long for a guilty expression to cross his face. "Oh. Oh, Peter. _I _did it somehow, didn't I?"

"You were kind of . . . flailing around and you just grazed me with your hand. Hey, I should have gotten out of the way."

Neal groaned. "Jeez, I'm sorry."

"Neal. You had a fever, and It was an accident. If you really want to apologize to me, I'm sure there are all kinds of things you've done that would fit the bill . . ." Peter noted the acknowledging look on Neal's face (which only proved Peter was right) and smothered a smile. "But this isn't one of them."

"Anyway," he added, "I told you, the problem wasn't that you accidentally nicked me. The problem was . . . ."

Waiting for him to finish, Neal watched quietly as Peter tried to think what to say. Introspection didn't come naturally to him.

"The problem was that you were so . . . out of it in the first place." Peter examined his hands, not meeting Neal's gaze. "You were really upset, not yourself. You were having flashbacks or hallucinations or—whatever they were, and it was tough to see you like that."

He could see that Neal was concentrating, sifting through his jumbled memories and trying to pull out what had happened, what was real.

"I think . . ." Neal said slowly, "I think I dreamed about—about Kate. Did I?"

Peter looked up at him, surprised. He'd expected Neal to dismiss it, to make some flippant comment and change the subject, because Neal hardly ever talked about those kinds of private, personal things. He gave Neal a grim, silent nod.

"It happens sometimes," Neal said, and Peter could hear how careful he was to keep his tone matter-of-fact, but there was an almost-imperceptible hitch in his breathing that gave him away. "Not as much as when I was in prison, you know, but sometimes . . . ."

Neal hesitated and Peter wondered if he should say something, as the pause lengthened and grew. He had a faraway look in his eyes that was unnerving. Neal was always present, always in the moment, but right now he was lost inside his own head, no doubt caught up in the horrific images being supplied by his mind's eye. It was probably a combination of Neal's exhaustion, and the pain, and the drugs, but Peter knew that he was getting a rare glimpse into things Neal would normally keep hidden. This was Neal at his most vulnerable, and while Peter was glad Neal trusted him enough to be open about it, it still shook Peter to see Neal this exposed.

When Neal spoke again, his voice was husky with emotion. "Sometimes I dream about that day . . . at the airstrip."

Peter knew that Neal had had flashbacks to Kate's death, and it wasn't surprising that he'd have dreams about it, too. There was no need, of course, for Neal to describe his dreams about that day, because Peter had been there, and Peter had them, too. Except that he was pretty sure his differed from Neal's. Peter's version always picked up in that moment when Neal had turned to look him in the eye and said his name, when Peter had dared to hope that Neal was going to say _I'm staying. _That moment right before the plane had blown up. In reality, Neal never had the chance to finish the sentence, leaving Peter to always wonder just what he would have said.

In Peter's version of the dream, though, events played out differently. Neal's gaze was unblinking and his voice unwavering as he said, _I don't belong here. You have to understand. This is goodbye, Peter. _When Peter tried to protest, Neal shook his head and said firmly, _Thank you—for everything. _Then he turned away, jogged to the plane and climbed the stairs.

In Peter's version of the dream, Neal was still visible in the doorway of the plane when it exploded, as fire surrounded him and engulfed him, and Peter would jolt awake with the sound of his own voice echoing in his ears, screaming Neal's name. He'd find himself staring in the dark, eyes wide with horror, gasping for breath and swearing he could taste the smoke and ash in his mouth, his nostrils—

"—Or I'll dream that she's lost and I'm trying to find her," Neal continued quietly, jarring Peter from that awful memory, "but I never can quite get to her. Those ones are . . . almost harder, somehow, because for a few seconds right when I wake up, I really think that she—that she's alive."

He cleared his throat. "Then I remember that she's gone and . . . ." Neal's voice died away.

The look on his face made Peter's gut churn. Again Peter was struck by the chilling, mirror-image quality of his and Neal's nightmares. Neal woke up to the elation of thinking Kate was alive, while Peter woke to the heart-stopping terror of thinking Neal was dead. For Neal, that brief moment of joy quickly turned into despair, while Peter went from numbing horror to overwhelming relief.

Neal shrugged, trying so hard to be casual that it made Peter's heart ache. "The mind plays tricks on you. Just how it works, I guess."

Peter's mouth had gone dry, and he had to swallow before he could speak. "You know, Neal, you've been through a lot, lately. I told you this already, but I'm offering again: if you ever want to . . . to talk about anything, I'm here. Or if you want to speak with a professional, I can arrange that. And it would be all confidential—"

"Thanks, Peter. I appreciate the offer, but I'll be okay. I always am. And it's getting better, really."

"I hope you're right, and not just saying that, Neal."

"No, I mean it," Neal assured him, and he sounded like he really did, but of course, Neal could make virtually anything sound like he really meant it. Peter knew that better than anyone.

He had to take Neal on faith on this one, though. He had to trust that Neal would ask for help if he needed it. Peter owed him that much, at least.

"It was just hard," Peter admitted, frustrated. "Sitting there watching you and knowing that I couldn't do anything to help."

"You were there," Neal said, locking eyes with Peter. "That helps."

"I'm glad to hear it," Peter said, smiling a little.

More silence ensued. There were so many more things Peter wanted to say, but Neal's eyelids were drooping and, really, he should have been resting long ago.

"So," Peter inquired, "are you going to sleep now?"

"Oh, yeaaah." Neal drew out the word tiredly. "Say, you should go. It's late, right? El's gonna be missing you."

"She's got Satch to keep her company, but I'll be going. Soon. I'm waiting for you to stop talking and start sleeping."

Neal smiled and his eyes fell shut immediately. Like he'd just been waiting for Peter to say it. With his skin still flushed, his face clean-shaven for once (the nurses didn't know yet that Neal preferred to have fashionable stubble), and his hair mussed and flopping down onto his forehead, Neal looked like he was about twelve years old.

Watching him start to drift off, Peter thought again about Neal's mother. Had _she _sat at his bedside when he was sick? Had she watched a twelve-year-old Neal go to sleep? Comforted him after bad dreams? Or had she been . . . somewhere else, more often than not? His father, too? Was that part of the explanation?

He wasn't sure he'd ever get the answers to those questions. Not that they mattered right now. Because although Neal's parents were nowhere around, that didn't mean Neal didn't have family to watch over him when he needed it.

Peter stayed at Neal's side, not leaving until he was sure his partner was sound asleep.

And, this time, very definitely _not_ dreaming.

* * *

Somewhere along the way—she wasn't sure exactly when—Elizabeth had fallen asleep on the couch. She woke suddenly to see Satch lying contentedly at her feet, tail wagging as Peter came through the door.

"Hi hon. So how's Neal?" she asked, blinking away tiredness and getting up to kiss him hello.

"Better." He kissed her back, but she could sense he was distracted.

"Better how?" she asked, not reassured by his look or his tone.

Peter shrugged. "His temp's down, he's resting. Finally."

"And not back in the ICU, I hope?"

"No, fortunately. The test results came back right before I left. The doctor thought at first he might be developing an infection in the wound, but now they say it's a respiratory thing. I guess it's not uncommon when someone's been on a ventilator. They're pumping antibiotics into him."

"That took a while," she observed, glancing at the clock.

"Yeah, he was really out of it for a while there," Peter said. "He was dizzy, vomiting, delirious—the works."

"Poor Neal," Elizabeth said sadly. Then she got a good look at her husband's face. "Peter, what happened?"

He glanced up at her, curious. "What do you mean?"

"Your face." She brought a hand up to touch his cheekbone.

"Oh, that," Peter sighed. Of course Elizabeth would notice. "Neal was confused and . . . thrashing around, and he caught me by accident."

At her worried look, he gave an impatient head shake. "It's nothing. Just a scratch. Doesn't even hurt."

Sensing he wasn't in the mood to be fussed over, Elizabeth nodded and headed for the fridge. "I'm going to heat up some meatloaf and mashed potatoes for you."

"Thanks, El, but I'm really not hungry."

"When did you eat last?"

He shrugged. "I grabbed something at the hospital."

"Yeah, but knowing you, it was probably out of a vending machine—" she noted that he didn't deny it—"and it's nighttime now. You have to eat something."

"I already did," he protested.

"Immaterial, my dear. You are going to eat some actual food— my meatloaf and mashed, to be specific—and I won't take no for an answer." She lifted the dinner plate she'd prepared out of the refrigerator and set it on the countertop.

He looked dubious and she added, "You don't want to hurt my feelings, do you?"

That brought a smile to his face, a weak smile, but better than nothing. He'd walked over to the couch and was shrugging his jacket off. When he was done, Elizabeth grabbed his arm and walked him back to the kitchen table. Peter rolled his eyes but didn't resist. Satchmo followed the pair of them eagerly, tail still wagging.

"Sit," she said, plopping him into the chair and sighing inwardly as Peter set some files down on the table. "Pet Satch, he's been missing you. What do you want to drink? How about a beer? Or maybe a glass of wine?"

"Nah, it's a little late for that. I think I'll just have water. I can get it myself," Peter said, starting to rise.

"I'll get it," Elizabeth told him firmly. "Sit. Relax."

"I've been doing nothing but sitting for hours." Peter muttered, rubbing the top of Satchmo's head as he leaned against Peter's leg, eager as always for affection.

"Yes, but you look exhausted. Just take it easy." Elizabeth busied herself uncovering the leftovers. Once she sneaked a glance over her shoulder.

Peter was staring into space. In fact, he looked as if his thoughts were a million miles away.

"Honey, he _is_ going to be all right," Elizabeth said, "Isn't he?"

He didn't answer; in fact, he didn't even appear to have heard her.

She pressed the microwave's start button and walked over so she was standing right next to him, setting down the water glass. "Peter."

He looked at her then, apologetically, almost as if he'd forgotten she was in the room. "I'm sorry, hon. What?"

"Neal's going to be okay, right?"

"Yes, he'll be okay. Eventually," he said hastily. She frowned at him and raised an eyebrow.

"You'd never know it to look at you."

He sighed. "I know, I know. He'll be okay. But it doesn't change what happened. It doesn't change the fact that he almost wasn't. Today kind of . . . brought it all home somehow."

This kind of endless recrimination really wasn't Peter's style, and it unnerved her. Especially when this wasn't his fault, not really. She'd thought that, as Neal recovered, Peter would stop blaming himself, stop feeling guilty. His expression now said just the opposite.

She sat down at the table and took his hand. "Honey, I appreciate that you feel responsible for Neal. But this . . . this seems excessive."

He sighed, brought his other hand up so hers was clasped in both of his.

"Watching him there today . . . listening to him. He was out of it, not really coherent. But at the same time he was so scared, so freaked out, El. He was dreaming, or hallucinating, or whatever. Terrible things. About Kate, about being shot, about . . . things I don't even know about, but it was bad. He needed someone to help him. It's—it's why I stayed. Even though I couldn't really _do_ anything."

"Honey, I'm so sorry. For both of you."

"Since the explosion, he's dreamed about Kate," Peter said bluntly.

Elizabeth inhaled sharply. "He told you that?" Peter had suspected that Neal was having flashbacks to Kate's death, but it wasn't a topic he'd ever raised with Neal directly. And Neal had never spoken of it.

'Yeah. He dreams about her death, and sometimes he dreams that she's alive," Peter said. "I think . . . he's not sure which ones are worse."

El frowned for a few seconds, but then realization dawned. "He . . . forgets she's gone, and when he wakes up, it's like he's going through the shock all over again?"

Peter nodded.

"How awful," she said, biting her lip. "He needs someone, Peter. I'm so glad you were there for him."

"He said it helped, but I don't know," Peter muttered.

She gave him an impatient look. "Of course it helped. He talked to you. It helped."

Peter hesitated. "And before all of that happened . . . Sara was there, and she told me—"

His voice broke off. Something about the look in his eyes, the raw emotion in his voice—it grabbed her by the throat.

Elizabeth prompted gently. "She told you what?"

"What Neal said to her that day. When he was shot."

Nodding encouragement, Elizabeth nonetheless felt a tightness in her chest.

"Neal told her to tell me that it wasn't my fault and to thank me for what I did for him. He said he knew I took a risk with him. How much it meant and that . . . that he tried not to let me down." Peter stopped, then started again, his voice rough. "He—he thought he was dying, El. He came so close."

"Oh, honey." She hugged him then, pulling him close, even though it was a little awkward to do it while sitting. Then she leaned back and looked into his eyes. "Wait, Neal really said that? About you and him?"

Peter nodded.

"That's . . . that's a pretty big deal, isn't it?"

"It is," he said quietly. "To me."

"He said it already, in a way, didn't he?" she mused, thinking back. "In court that day . . . ."

"At the time, I didn't think he meant it," Peter said in a low voice; she could hear the note of self-reproach.

"But now you know he did," she said, realizing that her eyes were welling up. "Now you know."

Peter's gaze was full of warmth—and some other emotion she was couldn't put a name to—as he looked back at her. "Yeah. I do."

More than anyone else in the world, Elizabeth knew just how much that meant to her husband. "Well, at least something good came out of this, then."

When Peter didn't answer, she said, "I wish I'd been there with you and Neal, today."

He smiled faintly. "You might be right about that. Maybe he would have responded to you."

"Oh, I doubt that," she said, meaning it. It was a nice thought, but the truth was: Neal didn't respond to anyone the way he did to Peter. "But, you know, you need to talk to him about all of this."

"When he's up for it."

"I have a feeling you'll find you're a lot more concerned about all of this than Neal is."

"Oh, I'm sure. But that's part of the problem. He's too careless about his own safety."

"Neal's not you, hon. And he never will be. Remember what Mozzie said: if you try to reign him in too far, you could end up with some very serious unintended consequences."

He sighed. "Now you're quoting Mozzie to me."

"Well, he's an authority on Neal," she reminded him. "As are you. Which is why I have all the confidence in the world that this will get resolved." She rose to stand behind him, encircling his chest with her arms and clasping him close, enjoying the warmth. "You're both smart and capable and . . . you'll figure it out."

Elizabeth broke away, realizing the microwave had dinged quite some time ago; they'd been so caught up in their conversation that neither of them had heard it. The food seemed hot enough, so she brought the plate over to Peter. Shoving the files aside, with a little more force than was strictly necessary, she set dinner down in front of him, and sat down in her usual place.

He made a show of eating; she knew it was more to keep her from nagging him than from any real desire to eat. Mostly, he pushed his food around on the plate, taking abnormally small bites.

"This is great, hon, thanks," he said, trying hard to sound like he meant it.

"So what else happened today?" she asked. If she could distract him sufficiently, maybe he'd eat automatically, without realizing what he was doing.

"Oh, a few interesting things. One of the marshals showed up."

Her eyebrows rose. "Since you're not calling from lockup, I'm guessing you . . . controlled yourself."

Peter gave her a pretend glare. "I was the soul of discretion. Got them to back off until we could get Neal's anklet back on."

"That's my Peter," she said, beaming at him.

"Also," he said, "there was one light moment at the hospital today. At least, I guess you could call it light."

She leaned forward with interest, as Peter talked about his initial encounter with Neal and then Sara.

"Oh, my God," Elizabeth said in horror, when he described Neal's revelation about the painting. Elizabeth knew all about the Raphael.

He chuckled. "That was my reaction, too. Neal was too addled to have any idea what he'd said to her. He is really adorably hilarious when he's under the influence," he added.

"So, being me," Peter continued, "I naturally assumed the worst. Neal wasn't himself and I was . . . worried about him, about . . . what he might have said. I chased Sara down and accused her of taking advantage of him."

"_Peter!" _she said, aghast. "Sara wouldn't do that."

"Sure, she would," Peter argued. "Or—she might. In theory."

She gave him an _isn't it obvious_ look. "Did you see her the day Neal got shot?"

"Yes. But do you know how much that Raphael is worth?" he shot back.

"Doesn't matter," she declared, shaking her head resolutely.

"You have a little more faith in human nature than I do."

"Which makes sense," she said in a brisk tone, "seeing as I'm not an FBI agent. So?"

"You were right," Peter admitted. His expression softened. "She didn't try to get any out information out of Neal. In fact, she said she had to run from the room when he started talking about the painting and wouldn't shut up."

Elizabeth smiled the smile of vindication. (Also, because Peter had been eating the whole time, and a good bit of the meatloaf and mashed had disappeared.) "Oh, ye of little faith," she told him.

He smiled back tiredly. "Glad to be wrong this time. Though she's not giving up on the painting, I can tell you that."

_TBC . . ._

_A/N – One reason I don't like posting a story while the show is airing is that I'm always concerned about overlap – and that really happened with this one. If you watched the just-aired Season 5 premiere (don't worry, no spoilers), you will notice a little resemblance between it and a few lines of dialogue in this chapter (if you saw the ep, you'll probably know what scene I'm referring to). This chapter really was written first, but it's kind of uncanny that the show was on the same wavelength tonight as I was, at least in writing this particular bit. _

_Otherwise, this story is feeling more anachronistic every day! (kind of out of step with where canon Peter and Neal are now) . . . hope you enjoyed it anyway. Thank you for reading, as always; comments greatly appreciated._


End file.
